















































































































































































































































% 
X/ 


iV 


% A* A ~ 



=3 f „ 

V V. W ''"~ -fc 

ij S 1 . j. -A ■ ^ O 

"” 1 “/.<" 1 ‘♦ ,V'*" oA ' •;.*X 

V- ’ 'v' /He ■ ' ' 1 

< 2 ^- n» • ^ 


.> •?> c> 

' O * X * ,A 

k' 0 ^ 


■’bo' 



,V c 

,r „• 


hi -*. ft o <*>\ 


•V 

*/ 

r d, ‘ * g , l »' . «S"' ,x, - 

'*?(, % 1 V V s'* '* X> ' of , .„, -^. "' 

. M}^Jk • % 


N C 



° 

- rf\ - . ' '<- X- * Xv a:’ . °' 

- ^ •; * - '- . '-v £ ft, z 

^ ' 4 * © -J CJ o' 

% *j y s* a 0 < • / o,x' i ' \ o, *, ,s N <o v 

«„ X, , 0 * x * v,l « X c° N S 7 o ** X .* 


<£•* 

V.' 








*p 

^ / : 

* , 0 o 

» .' 3 .^ ■'' %^! 1 ^> :' .' V ° \ *<> 

.N. \' /f; /■ ,' ■*> _. £ 

* ■ ■ • * W. -X>°;<*.,\.'*••’• >•, 

%/:>:^\/ 4 
'•wm-: ^ - ,...,„- /%. Xw* 

* - ' “ 1 W r:«%'[' : '' 4 . ‘ ■ •«x" * * ■ > A 

^ v ^' ,' 


? V. \X' ^ 




. V 1 8 4 


o 

^: $ o, : < 

,».’*V 

^o'- * ' * "> 'o 

* -P 




x r 4i v;t v v 

4 (A - ^ b, r V’ vV> 

% % % * ^ ^4« ^ 



<s~, 

&^ y ^ f i^jt>'-.^ ■)> 

« ., % j^' c 0 '■ 0 * 

* '^, a'' ^ 

°.>V ^ r 4 

* 1 ' . V a . . „ * 

r ' v s s E 1 >, 






**?%&*'* ^ «+ 
v v ' N ° ,)f »'*», * * 1 ’ * , > v . .. , ' 

•%. • v >* ^oC' 

2 .: i J -x - x> « t .'. z <p \\ J x ! f-.- 

^ ® \v art - o v z • vi 


-S' ^ 

«'"» '-<* '” * ' * A<\ . » » , %"^-'' J-'\< • • , <U 

1 ^ X* W'a 0 0 aV. ^.. ■> *+ 

- ■’bo' '£~- v', ' ^ ^ 



* ».««’■ c°" % * 

,0‘ »’<•«/.^ 

^ c<* ■ V % OS' 

c- %• . AvM » ^ ^ 

.A 


a V n 



O 

















%, f' ; 

A ^ O 

K Sf , v *<' 

X A 

*0 £ ' ' 



/ ' >7 o 

irl^V % z 

V \v 

O 

•/ 


,x % %> 

*- 

o 



c p v ^ x,B * <*- 


•7 'f' 


A 


A A A/- 

* A V'* 

V5> t .o X c , -*b. 

S 7 ^-> ’ ', 7 O' » - ^Sr, Z' 

v > 

> » ( i e 

k» ... 0 °v*Tr.'>\..,' 

'. «*, v ALftJ-v, 

”^v> \V * a 

^ ^ <* ;; 1 

* o ;%\w * a v ^ 

A' X . ^ t V ^ „ 

_ A A 1 o * / 

A V O * <- *T' a * * S 

„ A •■> c 

k <= av^si®. - ^ a 

o c> 



* \° O. 

o \ y. 

'■ ■ A' 1 ^ o r - 

* % x* 0 

-> 9f *° > A“>, 

r .'V r * 

- % * v * 




V A^ ^ 



k «5 J.V x, - , ... 

•> \ N \ U s y ^ ~ 0- \ v 

'& %'«:,«'\*° %. .# 

, -C- V> s'"'* ^7 ‘A »'*»z %. \> s'"'* 

• J j> a x -■ .'! I-. - "%A - ° ** \ vX - 

a*-A -. ^s’; ,vA. lv-s 

A v " % " ^ * A ' *> v 

A 5 . i i) <^ y 0 * x * A N c ’A. / y » * x s . , 8 v J 0 * K 

. V <. * v * <P jA c 0 * l o CV ^ 'l-' 

0° vi* " x^Xn/. 0° * < J V 

^ X \ -X . T.'Sa ^ x (\'/.'■ '' 2 -> ^ >v A \ 

. .„ ^ 'P. v? = -. ^ -xv 

A ^ -.f| « o <y 




, ^ >- o 

« •< ^ 





» .^- 



^ a°° 

V^-‘° 

4 ^ /'• •%■ '■' <?' sV.. ^ , \ ■ * -X, -» '' 

r- ^ c.S rx . •"■ -I c cT* yv' o " - 

«r -. ,. X, a v » ^ •* . < 

A -05^ y / *, x s ^o x x y o » x ^ A 

\ o N c A ^ ’ < a* s -Ts, „\>«/, X A\ 

^ 0° A, -n??^' { * < J ^ ^ ° C 

•x ,sS\v«\ ^ ,4 ~- * A x. avA'.W ✓ 

-^ 0 x ;mm^^ ^ y 

> = y °* - ^ ,,„,. , 

v . -Rxi' s x>r> v v. ^yY/ ,) w x't 

v > \* '' ^ iA ^ -,r^-y /.>’.'& > ’ *\ 

^ -z^t- or ,A, 7- /xO C* /- ■- ’ x a'Q'* . < 

U **1^ J? t * 0 % ^ 8 I A A xS * * I- 

c> V X s Aw ^ > A <•' 0 ^„ C' V 

^ A o^', ^ A ^ 

Ar> ° AlNutillA " A. v 



<> o 




. ^ A .* 

■ ! A*% = 


,'a '♦rA' A’ 

.4> C» K °* y o. ** 0^* 

^ O C) X 



__ . -o A -x 

& ■< V 

<x 

^ O X 0< ^. 

f 1 > * 

c A o ^ 

A o, -v 

A 




* A 

'+ %p 4 ' 
: -.-.^ ; A y 
^ o \° 0> 


■r •■y V *• 

« o 0 

4 -r. * ^ © ,\ v 

s <) r~> x- X s a- c^, y K ' - * r\0 

■ ., N» A 0 ' %, *«M* ^ ,,<, ^ *’»' / , , » 

QV 4 V * 0 A \ , V X S 7 l f S' 0 V ^ ^ * r > A 

#S. A ^ aV * 

-X X> “ 





















UNDER THE SKIN 


BY 

WILLIAM F. VASSALL 

« 

* 




F. STONE WILLIAMS CO. 

678 BROADWAY 
Brooklyn, N. Y. 




“The squire’s lady and Judy O’Grady 
Are sisters under the skin.” 


Rudyard Kipling. 


Copyright, 1923, 

By WILLIAM F. VASSALL. 
All Rights Reserved. 


Press of 

J. J. Little & Ives Company 
New York, U. S. A. 



©C1A76G087 






CONTENTS 


PART I 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I A Child op the Wilds .... 1 

II Mother and Daughter .... 5 

III One of the Bundu.10 

IV The Stranger.13 

V Her Hero.21 

VI The Fabulous White Man ... 28 

VII Ties That Bind .35 

VIII The Suit op Wandango .... 43 

IX The Chivalry op Kubanda ... 49 

X The Wrath of the Mabode ... 55 

XI Without Mercy. 62 

PART II 

XII The Recovered Volume .... 69 

XIII The New Maid.74 

XIV Two Savages .81 


v 










VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER rAUEi 

XV After the Races.89 

XVI The Break.95 

XVII A Girl’s Problems.107 

XVIII Surprised.112 

XIX Dogged Pursuit.118 

XX Lost.124 

XXI Through the Hills.128 

XXII The Return.134 

XXIII Days of Long Ago.142 

XXIV Sisters but in Blood ..... 151 

XXV Among Fiends.164 

XXVI Circles of Fire.171 

XXVII Recognition.175 

XXVIII Indian Faith.182 

XXIX A Zandey.186 

XXX From the Distant Past .... 193 

XXXI In Quest of Revenge . . . . 198 

XXXII A Gloomy Outlook.207 

i 

XXXIII Awake to Love.213 

XXXIV The End of a Perfect Day . . . 220 

XXXV Dead Hearts.231 









CONTENTS ' vii 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XXXVI A Period op Unrest. 240 

XXXVII An Attempt at Reconciliation . 252 

XXXVIII The Warrant. 261 

XXXIX Farewell. 270 

XL Trapped. 277 

XLI Love Supreme. 289 

XLII The Last Tribute. 307 






UNDER THE SKIN 

PART I. 

CHAPTER I. 

A CHILD OF THE WILDS. 

The turgid waters of the lordly Kubanda rolled their 
misty depths towards the majestic Congo, seven hundred 
miles below. On either bank, far as the eye could reach, 
clustered great groves of kumba-trees, while, here and 
there, a gigantic kokkorokoo raised its mighty head a 
hundred feet above the verdant sward. Nearer at hand, 
crowding themselves to the very brink of the river, rose 
aromatic ginger reeds; their haunting fragrance adding 
a touch of dreamy unreality to this wild scene of wood 
and water, of wonderful wild-flowers and wasted beauty. 

Nature was lavish with her splendor, but none was 
there to admire it; none save the clumsy guinea-fowl, 
who, as he flopped heavily from one bough to another, 
or stooped to gather some dainty morsel from the ever- 
generous earth, called incessantly for his mate. No 
human eye would pay its tribute of adoration; no human 
heart-But wait!- 

Around the upper bend of the river glided a tiny 
craft. The plaything of the waters, it, nevertheless, dis¬ 
played a will of its own, as if some guiding spirit directed 
its course. And so it proved; for, crouched in the stern 
of the boat, a tiny figure now appeared to view, a single 
paddle trailing in the water behind. 

Above the hardly audible rustle of the leaves could 

1 




2 


UNDER THE SKIN 


barely be distinguished the soft cooing of a girl’s high 
soprano, in a voice distinctly rich, notwithstanding the 
uninflected, unmodulated sound of the language in which 
it was rendered. The chorus, wdiich alone was wholly 
distinct, might be approximately translated,— 

“Spirit of Light, accept a maiden’s vows, 

Keep me from ill, and shield me from the night.” 

A deft movement of the paddle shot the boat towards 
the bank, at the mouth of a small rivulet which was partly 
concealed by the dense growth around. In a moment the 
occupant had tied the boat to a root jutting out above 
the water, and scrambled agilely up the bank. 

She was a slight child, hardly more than twelve years 
of age. Her only garment was a skirt of genet skin, 
reaching from the waist to half-w T ay above the knees. 
The rest of her body was bare, and of a light, chocolate 
hue. Her hair, thick and curled, could hardly be termed 
woolly, and fell in long, black rolls over her shoulders. 
Her features were regular and well-formed, a straight 
nose and gently-curved mouth, with lips not noticeably 
thick, giving her countenance a rather Semitic appear¬ 
ance. Her limbs were round and plump, and her every 
movement exhibited the elastic agility of untrammelled 
youth. 

Yet Ubaba, only daughter of Ntikkigama, king of Ku- 
banda, was an African, of unadulterated blood since the 
time when Central Africa was first separated from the 
rest of the world by impassable oceans, and from the 
rest of Africa by equally impassable forests. 

Still crooning her prayer-song, Ubaba plunged deeper 
into the thicket, ever and anon reappearing with armful 
after armful of the fairest, sweetest blossoms. At length 
the bottom of her boat was covered with flowers, then 
once more she resumed her place in the stem of the 
craft, pointed its nose up stream, and was off. Now, 


3 


A CHILD OF THE WILDS 

however, her task was greater, for she had to battle 
against the current. But Ubaba was no novice at rowing, 
and her frail craft made remarkable progress on its 
course. It was in an incredibly short time, and the girl 
showed no sign of fatigue, when the boat grated against 
the small wooden quay two miles up the river, and Ubaba 
sprang lightly ashore. 

Gathering her wealth of flowers in her arms, she walked 
lithely along the narrow beaten path that led to her 
home, half-a-mile from the river. 

The ground through which she passed was carefully 
tilled. Here vast acres of teleboon-corn stretched away 
towards the distant sky-line; there, an equally expansive 
field of maize adjoined. Great groves of plantains 
blocked her way, their heads bent low with their noble 
loads of golden fruit. Fields of yam, and cassava, and 
sweet potato stretched forth on either hand. Yonder, in 
the distance, the palm-trees raised their lovely fronds to 
heaven, while, more beautiful than all, the stately zawa- 
tree, its stem jet-black, lifted its cylindrical crown of 
narrow, quivering blades, smooth as polished mahogany, 
towards that sun which had witnessed no nobler tree, 
the while its flowers perfumed the air with a purer, 
richer fragrance than ever graced the rose. 

Ubaba sniffed the exhilarating aroma, and as her 
eye sped over the entrancing view that surrounded her, 
once more she raised her voice in song,—this time the 
wild medley of words and melody indicating the ema¬ 
nations of a soul entirely happy. 

Before her was a group of huts, tall and symmetrical, 
their pointed roofs covered with straw. Great barns 
built of clay stood just behind each hut, while in front, 
on pegs, on trees, or on poles, hung every conceivable 
armament of war or of the chase, and several of the 
trophies of the latter. Towards the largest of these huts, 
the mbanga of her father, Ubaba directed her steps. 

The palace of Ntikkigama differed only in size from 


4 


UNDER THE SKIN 


the residences of lesser persons. The roof was straw- 
covered, and the walls of clay. The doors were woven, 
mat-like, from the giant blades of the popnkky grass, 
and the floor was of clay, rolled level and trampled hard. 

The building was divided into several rooms, each set 
apart for a special purpose. That into which Ubaba 
entered might be termed the pantry, for here an elderly 
woman was directing a couple of younger ones in the art 
of making S 9 me mysterious salad, in which mushrooms, 
kumba-pepper, and zawa-oil played no small part. 

“Have you returned already, child?” queried the 
woman turning to the intruder. 

“Yes, and, oh mamma, look at the beautiful flowers 
I have brought, ’ ’ cried Ubaba in breathless ecstasy. ‘ ‘ Are 
they not lovely ? Smell them , 9 9 and she raised a handful 
to her mother’s face. 

“They are, my child,” replied the mother kindly, 
“and they do honor to your purpose. May they never 
fade!” She kissed the lips the girl held up to her. 
“Now sprinkle them with fresh water, and commence 
to string them. Anon I shall return to help you, but 
first I must glance at the girls in the fields, for I have 
left them over long, and know not what they may be 
doing. ’ 9 

With a last loving glance, she tore herself from her 
daughter, and darted towards the fields; for the responsi¬ 
bilities of royalty are everywhere enormous, and nowhere 
in any modern kingdom has any queen an affair of state 
more incumbent upon her than was the duty of this 
dusky potentate to supervise the slaves tilling her hus¬ 
band’s plantations. 


CHAPTER II. 


MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 

Alali, mother of Ubaba, was not of the tribe to which 
her husband, Ntikkigama, belonged. Descended from 
royal Ibani stock, she could claim connection with nearly 
all the leading tribes of West Central Africa, and seemed 
to inherit most of the virtues and few of the vices of these 
singular peoples. 

Considering her advantages and her surroundings, she 
must be conceded a woman of high ideals, of remarkable 
tact and initiative, and of a kindliness and fidelity which 
made all her friends her slaves, and led her husband, him¬ 
self one of the noblest princes of the Niam-niam, almost 
to worship her. And in her only child it had always been 
her hope and ambition to see all her ideals realized. All 
that was noblest, holiest, purest, had ever been taught 
to the child since her earliest days, so that now she seemed 
to embody whatever was most worthy in the various 
African tribes, with as few of their blemishes as an 
anxious mother could not exclude. 

When Alali returned to the mbanga, Ubaba, closeted 
in her room, had already completed several wreaths of 
the beautiful flowers. The mother surveyed the entire 
scene with a smile of pride and satisfaction, then seated 
herself on a little stool beside her daughter, and, gather¬ 
ing up a handful of blossoms, began to assist in weaving 
them into wreaths. 

Of a darker hue than her child, though not entirely 
black, the royal lady had the same regular features, the 
same black, sparkling eyes, the same milk-white teeth un¬ 
affected by the popular custom of filing them to points, 
and the same long, flowing, jet-black hair. Unlike the 

5 


6 


UNDER THE SKIN 


other women of the community, who wore only a skin 
below the waist, Alali wore a complete coat of colobus 
skins of the richest variety, made into one piece like a 
large apron, and reaching from her neck to her knee, 
with holes cut for the arms. Naturally, she wore a 
string of beads around her neck, and bracelets of iron 
around her wrists and arms, but neither her lips nor her 
nose were mutilated by the horrible African practice 
of boring and distending these to admit further 
adornments. 

Her voice was rich and musical as she spoke to her 
child in that subdued, confidential tone which can never 
fail to gain a daughter’s complete confidence. 

“To-morrow,” she was saying, without lifting her 
eyes from the string of flowers on which she was labor¬ 
ing, “you will be a woman. Thirteen years will you be, 
and your childhood will end, but not your sorrows. 
Hence it has been the custom among our people to have 
our daughters dedicate themselves to the great Gumbah 
for his protection. I have told you all this before, but 
I must now repeat it for the last time, since you will not, 
to-morrow, longer listen to me as a daughter. ’ ’ 

“Ah, mother, be not unkind,” answered Ubaba, a great 
tear dangling in her sparkling eye. “My mother you 
will ever be; the dearest, sweetest mother that has ever 
been.” 

“Have I been unkind?” asked the mother tenderly. 
“Ah, no, Ubaba; I judged you not as other maidens. 
But it is meet that to-morrow when you stand before 
the Great Light, you do so with a full knowledge of your 
responsibilities. Have you practised the hymns that you 
will sing?” 

“I did, my mother. Even to-day on the river and in 
the woods I sang them, and I know them perfectly. 
Shall I sing them to you ? ’ ’ 

“Later, my child. I have other things to talk about 


MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 7 

now, which it is important that you should understand 
and remember for ever. ’ ’ 

She paused, and Ubaba answered, 

‘ ‘ I am listening, my mother. ’ ’ 

“It is customary,” Alali continued, “for our maidens 
to remain in the house of the Great Light for four 
years. There they are safe from the evils of life; they 
are protected from the impurity of the world, and dis¬ 
honor affects them not. But with you it will be different. 
The holy priestesses have agreed that, considering the 
devotion of your parents and the projection of your 
home, you §}mll return in four days, with the blessing 
of the Great Light resting upon your head, and the full 
rites of Bundu conferred upon you.” 

“It were so hard to be separated from you, my 
mother, and from my noble father for four long years,” 
sighed Ubaba. “And, mother, I will be good.” 

“I believe it, my child,” replied the mother, “else, 
even with our love of you, we had not asked it. But 
listen to me.? 

‘ ‘ Say it, my mother, ’ ’ Ubaba murmured. 

“Remember, then, that always, your honor is the 
noblest thing you have. Guard it rather than your life, 
for love, and truth, and purity_ live after death. The 
curse of the great Gumbah,—the Great Light,—goes upon 
the impure. Would you have your father’s curse, your 
mother’s curse, upon your head?” 

“Nay, my mother; your blessing, rather, and my 
father’s. I am ever your child.” 

“Among our people,” the mother continued, “this has 
ever been the law: No man, save only her father, shall 5 
ever touch an unwed maid, nay, not so much as her little 
finger. The touch of any, except it be to rescue her from 
mortal peril, shall be a pollution, and only in the blood 
of the transgressor shall the indignity be wiped out. Do 
you comprehend all that the command implies ? ’ ’ 

“I do, my mother. Believe me, the immutable laws 


8 


UNDER THE SKIN 


of the house of Kubanda shall never be defied by the 
daughter of Ntikkigama. Kiss me, my mother. 5 * 

“But there is more,” Alali proceeded, reseating her¬ 
self after the solicited caress. “Some day some chief 
will desire to make you his bride. Let him be noble and 
brave and true, and then to him you shall go, noble, brave 
and true also. None else shall have you.” 

“My mother, I shall never wed.” 

‘ ‘ Nonsense, child! What do you mean ? ’ ’ cried Alali. 

‘ ‘ To become the bride of some w r orthy man is the noblest 
ambition, the highest good, the real destiny of every 
true woman. To mother his sons; to see them grow to 
manhood, noble and brave like their father, and feel 
that they are part of her own blood and body, this is 
the highest honor, the fullest satisfaction, the purest joy 
life affords. Ubaba, you will not suffer the house of 
Ntikkigama to be extinguished.” 

“Your wish is my law, my mother,” Ubaba answered. 
“Your word will guide me.” 

“It is well,” sighed Alali. “The noblest, the purest, 
the bravest shall you have;—one of our own people. I 
love not the neighbors. The Mabode and the Monbuttoo 
are savages, and eat each other. The Bongo herds a 
harem of wives, and cannot give to you the devotion due 
to a bride. The Mittoo, the Congo, the Ibo, the Dinka, 
they are all alike. No, whoever he be, he shall love you 
only, and to him shall you go pure and unpolluted, and 
pure and unpolluted in his home must you ever remain, 
for he alone shall be your lord. But of that there will 
yet be time to speak, and of much else. I hear the beat¬ 
ing of the drums. Let us go out to hail your father’s re¬ 
turn.” 

Ubaba sprang from her seat, and, seizing her mother’s 
hand, led her to meet the approaching party. A com¬ 
pany of about fifty men, at their head Ntikkigama, 
followed by a number of slaves and bearers, emerged 
from the woods, and approached the mbanga. A wild, 


MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 


9 


uproarious drumbeating, accompanied by laughter, song, 
and shouting, announced the successful return of some 
royal hunting party. 

In an open space fifty yards from the royal hut, the 
bearers deposited the spoils. A dozen antelopes, two 
buffaloes, a boar, an elephant, and, set apart by itself 
near the chief, a magnificent lion, besides a quantity of 
smaller game, constituted the bag. 

The king carefully supervised the division of the 
spoils before he would let domestic affairs enter into his 
mind. Then he turned to his wife, whom he greeted 
with the utmost devotion and solicitude. Ubaba he lifted 
in his great muscular arms, and kissed affectionately 
on the forehead. Then setting her down beside the 
lion, he pointed to the noble beast, and said: 

“The king of the forest, from the king of Kubanda 
to the Princess Ubaba, for a sacrifice to the King of 
Creation, on her assumption of the sacred vow of Bundu. 
May the princess be protected!” 

Ubaba kissed her father’s hand, then bent beside the 
dead lion to examine it more closely. 

“You have not marred his hide?” Alali asked with 
quick concern. 

The chief glanced proudly up at her. 

11 No true Zandey hurls dart or trumbash * at the 
sacrificial beast,” he said. “I crept upon him in his 
lair, and clubbed him ere he sprang.” 

She kissed her husband’s cheek, and thanked him for 
his thoughtfulness of their child. A few minutes later 
the party entered the hut, where a steaming supper was 
now awaiting. 

* Trumbash.—A missile used among the Niam-niam, consisting 
of several pieces of iron with sharp points, so fastened together 
that the points stick out in all directions. 


CHAPTER III. 


ONE OF THE BUNDU. 

The village of Bakinji stood in a fertile plain on the 
southern bank of the Kubanda River, and had, at the 
time, a population of over five thousand souls. 

Principally of the Zandey (or Niam-niam) tribe, they 
had intermarried with the Monbuttoo to the east, the 
Mabode to the south, the Mittoo, Bongo, Dinka, Congo, 
and other surrounding and distant tribes, till they 
retained comparatively few of the original Zandey traits; 
—for the Central African always counted it to his credit 
to obtain a wife from as distant a tribe as was possible, 
perhaps on account of the dangers it involved,—the 
Zandey being naturally an adventurer,—but more 
probably to be far from his mother-in-law, who was 
permitted to collect almost perpetual levy from his 
property. 

Several outlying villages, each with a chief of its own, 
also did homage, and paid their tribute of ivory and 
elephants’ flesh to Ntikkigama at Bakinji, he being by 
descent as well as by power of arms, the supreme chief, 
or king of Kubanda. 

On the western limit of the village, an open space of 
several acres had been cleared, and surrounded by a 
strong palisade of pointed stakes. Within this enclosure 
were the sacred temple and the huts of the Bundu. 

In several parts of Africa, but more especially among 
the Western tribes, girls, varying in age from twelve to 
fifteen years according to the tribe, were dedicated to 
the service of some ruling divinity, and kept in seclusion 
in close proximity to his temple, for a period, varying 
in different localities, of from two to six years. They 

10 


ONE OP THE BUNDU 


11 


were known as the Bundu, or Sacred Virgins. A system 
somewhat similar was also applied to boys, though the 
period of seclusion was generally shorter. 

The discipline of the Bundu was extremely strict. 
Supported by their relatives, who brought, daily, supplies 
of meat and vegetables to the gate of their convent, they 
were allowed no communications except among them¬ 
selves. Their mornings and evenings v/ere spent in 
sacrifices and hymns to their acknowledged deity, but 
the rest of the day was devoted to instruction in deport¬ 
ment, and in the crafts which the girls, as women, would 
have to perform;—among the Kubandans, pottery, wood¬ 
carving, basket-making, cooking, agriculture, and hair¬ 
dressing,—for no women on earth take more pride in 
their hair, or spend more time in arranging it. 

No male animal of any kind was ever permitted to 
enter the sacred enclosure alive, and even after the girls 
were liberated from their monastic life, any familiarity 
on the part of any man was punishable by the summary 
execution of the culprit. Indeed, the chastity and 
modesty of African maidens, even in sections where there 
is almost unlimited polygamjr or complete nudity, has 
long been proverbial. 

The following morning, Ubaba, dressed solely in gar¬ 
lands of milk-white blossoms, left her father’s hut for 
the temple of Gumbah. Before her, twelve maidens, 
slightly younger than herself, with heads and bodies 
bedecked with flowers, bore a mat supported on six 
poles, on which reposed the carcass of the lion that was 
to be sacrificed. Alali walked beside her child, followed 
by two slaves bearing baskets of presents for the 
priestesses. Behind these came a long procession of 
women, the wives of the chiefs whose daughters bore 
the sacrificial offering. 

At the gate to the enclosure, the procession halted. 
The hearers deposited their burden, bowed to the candi¬ 
date, and retraced their steps in silence. The matrons 


12 


UNDER THE SKIN 


followed them. Only Alali remained with her child. 
The gates opened, and two priestesses, followed by a 
choir of chanting maidens, emerged from within. 

Alali kissed the girl. 

“The Light be upon you to protect you,” she muttered 
softly, then delivered her to the priestesses, and, turning 
back, was soon out of sight. 

Twelve of the Bundu had by this time lifted the carcass 
of the lion, and, following them slowly, Ubaba, a priestess 
on either arm, marched into the temple of her God. 

Four days later another procession formed at the same 
gate; but, unlike the former, it was boisterous and noisy. 
Drums and guitars, with singing and shouting and the 
clanging of sticks, added to the commotion. All were 
happy, and at the head of the procession, escorted by a 
number of women older than herself, Ubaba tripped 
and danced merrily. She was now clothed from neck 
to knee in a great robe of skin,—the skin of the lion 
that had been sacrificed. 

At the mbanga a great feast had been prepared in 
honor of the returning princess, and a crowd had 
assembled to welcome her. Late into the night the party 
ate, and drank (for the Kubandans brew a very drink¬ 
able beer from the teleboon-corn), and danced, and sang, 
and built massive bonfires, and had a riotously good 
time. This celebration, the borru-dance, or prayer-dance, 
was never omitted on any occasion on which the Central 
African felt that thanks should be rendered to the 
superior spirits. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE STRANGER 

Tropical children are proverbially precocious. Where, 
therefore, custom as well as nature makes the transition 
from girlhood into womanhood almost instantaneous, 
without any provisions for a period of adolescence, it is 
not unusual to discover a complete change of demeanor 
in any young person within a comparatively short time. 

Ubaba, a few weeks after her initiation into the order 
of Bundu, had assumed all the responsibilities of 
maturity, and was as different from the thoughtless, 
trusting child of a month before as it is possible for the 
woman to differ from the girl, her predecessor. 

True, she retained her happy smile, her merry, laugh¬ 
ing eyes, and her innate kindness of heart that had 
endeared her to all. But her marked taciturnity, and 
more than ever her desire for seclusion, pointed unmis¬ 
takably to the change. For days she would wander about 
the woods, or lounge in the dense shades of the forest, 
accompanied at times by her maid, Piriba, a young slave 
somewhat older than herself, whom her( father had 
relegated to the task of waiting solely upon the young 
princess. At other times she took with her only “ Turn- 
turn, ” a little dog that she had petted and fondled and 
teased and taught, till it could read her wishes with 
almost human perception. But more often than not, 
she would take these rambles in utter solitude, and 
communicate with the vast society of untamed nature 
about her in monologues, or songs, or silent day-dreams. 
And at night she would sit by her mother’s side, recount¬ 
ing to her the various adventures of her day, showing 
some new treasure of beauty she had unearthed, or 

13 


14 


UNDER THE SKIN 


seeking a solution of one of the ever-increasing mysteries 
which confronted her. 

One morning Ubaba went down to the river alone, as 
she so often did. With the supple agility of a water- 
nymph, she swam about for more than an hour, making 
several trips from bank to bank. She at length emerged 
from the water, resumed her dress, and was proceeding 
into the thicket, when a queer sound arrested her atten¬ 
tion. The sound was almost immediately repeated, and 
Ubaba wondered what it was. Peering in the direction 
from whence it came, she could distinguish a thin cloud 
of smoke rising from the dense forest; and, in the belief 
that some of her people had made a fire there, she walked 
boldly in that direction. 

Her progress was slow, for the heavy undergrowth 
of thorns and creepers everywhere intercepted her path. 
At length, however, she reached a spot which had recently 
been trampled by some animal, and as she looked around, 
she saw, not six paces away, the body of a huge wild 
boar, lying still. A second glance assured her that the 
animal was dead, and she carelessly approached it. Then 
she paused suddenly, looked more carefully, and sprang 
towards the beast. For, lying beneath it was the 
prostrate body of a man. 

With all her strength, Ubaba tugged at the unwieldy 
beast, and inch by inch removed it from the body beneath. 
Then, without another glance at the monster of the 
forest,—for wild boars were almost daily sights,—she 
turned to survey the more wonderful creature which lay 
motionless below. 

The face and hands were of a grayish white. The 
hair was black, thin and straight. The entire body and 
limbs were covered with some soft, pliable fabric, and 
the feet, too, were clothed in some black skin, from which 
the hair had been removed. Lying on the ground near¬ 
by, was a long, black weapon of iron, one end hollow, 


THE STRANGER 15 

and the other, bent and enlarged, covered with some 
polished wood. 

Ubaba gasped with wonder at the strange spectacle, 
and looked around to make sure she was awake. True, 
she had heard that there were white men, but like the 
other fairy tales that had been told to her in her child¬ 
hood, she had long discarded these stories as pure inven¬ 
tion. Various old African myths had often been repeated 
to her, all of which depicted white men as unnatural, 
inhuman creatures, the inveterate enemies of the negro 
races, and capable of untold barbarities. 

These old myths immediately recurred to the girl, and 
she recollected that if this were really a white man, then 
it was a creature to be loathed and avoided. She bent 
over the figure to examine mpre closely the strange color 
of the skin, and as she did so, she caught the low hissing 
of his breath. Apparently he was not dead, as she had 
at first supposed. Instinctively her loathing fled, and 
in its place there sprang up pity for the lone creature, 
who, though'barbarous and detestable, as she had been 
taught, must yet be far from his home and his friends, 
and be in need of aid. 

With quick intuition she dragged part of the torn 
clothing from the man’s body. Across his white, hairy 
chest a great gash had been cut by the tusk of the 
ferocious beast, while a similar wound, extending from 
the shoulder to the elbow of the right hand, almost sepa¬ 
rated the flesh from the bone. But wounds or blood 
could not sicken Ubaba. She was a chieftain’s daughter 
among a savage tribe, and several times she had aided 
in tending the wounded hunters or warriors of her 
people. 

Plucking a large leaf, she ran to a little brook that 
trickled by, and, filling it with water, she hurried back, 
and poured it on the stranger’s wounds. Again and 
again did she repeat this performance, till the bleeding 
had been stopped, and the clotted blood removed. Then, 


16 


UNDER THE SKIN 


gathering some balsamic herbs that grew around, the 
efficacy of which she must have known from past experi¬ 
ence, she pounded the tender leaves on a large stone till 
they became a juicy pulp. With this she completely 
covered the wounds, then, tearing some bark from a 
plantain tree that stood a little way off, she carefully, 
and not unskilfully, bandaged them up. She poured 
more water on the face, and, seating herself on the 
carcass of the boar, awaited further developments, while 
she pondered over the mystery. 

What could she do? Some feeling of womanly pity 
stirred her breast for this unfortunate creature of another 
world who had come to her father’s country to die. Yet, 
how could she help him? Somehow, she felt that he 
was human like herself, for only his color was distinctly 
unhuman, and even among her own countrymen had 
she seen persons of various shades of color, though 
nothing so unnatural as this. Yet she knew that should 
she take him among her people, they would kill him as 
they would an antelope. She dared not do that. She 
would save him at any cost, but before she could think 
of taking him to the mbanga of her father, she must first 
learn her mother’s opinion of white men. 

After a long period of patient waiting, the man slowly 
opened his eyes. Ubaba sprang beside him, for she was 
strangely unafraid of this queer creature. He did not 
see her at first, but slowly consciousness dawned upon 
him, and immediately his eyes fell upon the bandages 
which swathed his wounds. 

Instinctively a cry of surprise escaped him, and he 
turned his eyes to see who was his nurse. There she 
stood beside him in all the beauty of childish simplicity. 
Her scant robe, enveloping her body in its cylindrical 
fold, robbed her form of that perfect symmetry it should 
exhibit, but nothing could rob her carriage of that proud 
grace nature had bestowed upon it, as she stood over 
him like some benignant angel, her hands behind her 


THE STRANGER 


17 


back^ and her brilliant eyes beaming with sympathetic 
curiosity. For one moment a single ray of sunlight 
beamed through the towering boughs, and laved her 
swarthy features in a sea of gold. Forgetting his wounds, 
the stranger gazed at the unfamiliar creature, lost in 
wonder. Then he muttered a few low words in a 
language Ubaba had never heard before, though she 
could converse in most of the dialects of the surrounding 
tribes. The maiden guessed, however, what the first 
thoughts of the man must be, and pointed to the carcass 
of the boar. 

His eyes followed her finger, and he closed them for a 
minute, while he tried to recollect. 

“Oh,” he said at last, slowly recovering himself, and 
speaking the Zandey dialect with difficulty. “I know' 
now. I am in Ntikkigama’s country, am I not?” 

“Yes,” replied the girl, both pleased and surprised 
that the stranger could speak in her tongue, “in blessed 
Kubanda.” 

“Blessed indeed,” the man admitted. “And may I 
ask who is my generous nurse and only friend?” 

“Ntikkigama’s daughter,” replied the maid simply. 
“But who are you, and whence do you come? Men like 
you dwell not in these parts.” 

“You are my friend?” the man repeated. 

“I am,” she replied. “And you?” 

“May I presume to name myself the friend and 
protege of Ntikkigama’s daughter ? ’ ’ said the man, 
extending his left and unwounded hand towards the 
maid. 

“You know not the law of our country, though you 
speak its tongue,” cried the girl, springing back and 
assuming an air of distant formality, “else you would 
know it were pollution to me and death to you had your 
finger so much as touched me.” 

“Have I already angered you, my princess?” asked 
the man penitently, for it was plain that he was not 


18 


UNDER THE SKIN 


aware of the moral code of the country, and still mis¬ 
understood the maiden. “I am sorry, and must make 
atonement. My life is yours, for you have saved it. Will 
you take it? I shall not resist.” 

“You are a brave warrior,” said the girl, to whom 
bravery had ever been extolled as the leading qualifica¬ 
tion of manhood. “l r ou are a brave warrior, but a 
simple one to misunderstand me. Such has ever been 
the law of our land, and I but reminded you to warn 
you. The daughter of Ntikkigama can neither bring 
shame upon herself, nor death upon her friend.” 

“Ah, I understand you now,” answered the stranger, 
“and I thank you both for the reminder and for the 
double assurance of friendship. I shall not forget 
your warning.” 

“It is enough,” Ubaba answered. “But of yourself; 
—w r hat of your hurts?” 

‘ ‘ I hardly remembered them, lady, thanks to your kind 
ministrations. But with your leave I shall examine 
them.” 

“Nay,” cried the girl, “you must not yet remove the 
dressing. Let it work its magic rather.” 

“It is as you shall decide, princess. But where did you 
get this water ? I feel as if I could drink the river dry. ’ ’ 

Without answering, she ran to the little stream, and 
soon returned with a leaf full of the clear, sparkling 
fluid. She held it to his lips while he swallowed great 
refreshing gulps. 

“That’s better now,” he breathed with a deep sigh of 
satisfaction. “As for this scratch, I shall soon be well 
again. Many worse have I borne, yet not even their 
memory remains. Still, it was a close shave. But I 
got him.” 

She pointed questioningly to the boar, and he nodded. 

“Perhaps you could sit up now, and tell me how it 
happened,” she suggested. 

“Why, of course I can,” he replied, and tried to sit 


THE STRANGER 19 

up. Ubaba assisted him, then placed a pillow of grass 
and boughs against his back. 

“I was coming down the river alone in a little boat,” 
said the stranger, “and as I was short of provisions, I 
decided to make a brief stop and try to get some game. 
I drew up my boat on the bank, and, taking my gun, 
made off into the woods. I soon spied a young antelope, 
and was just about to fire when I heard a rustling of 
the leaves, and, looking, saw the boar not six paces away, 
making straight at me. I emptied both barrels into his 
forehead almost simultaneously, and must have killed 
him with the first shot, but his mad momentum brought 
him down upon me like a tornado before I was able to 
get out of his way. His long tusks ripped me here and 
there in his convulsive death struggles; and his great 
bulk, combined with my own loss of blood, pressed the 
consciousness out of me. But for your aid, I believe he 
would have got me.” 

“Is this your spear?” she asked, raising the queer 
weapon from the ground. 

“That is a gun,” replied the stranger, “but that is 
what I use instead of a spear.” 

“My father hunts with a spear,” said the girl, “but 
it has a sharp point. Your spear has no point; how can 
it pierce his thick hide?” 

“ I do not try to pierce his hide with it, ’ ’ laughed the 
man. “I put a small ball of metal into it, and when I 
ignite the powder, the explosion hurls out the missile 
with tremendous force.” 

“Like a trumbash,” cried the girl. “I understand 
now. My father hurls a trumbash, too, sometimes; but 
he throws it with his hand. Why don’t you throw yours 
with your hand?” 

To explain to the untaught mind of this small maiden 
of the wilds the intricate mechanism of the modern fire¬ 
arm was no simple task. Yet, with the remarkable in¬ 
trepidity of his race, the white man plunged volubly 


20 


UNDER THE SKIN 


into lengthy explanations, and was not a little surprised 
at the aptitude she showed in comprehending his mean¬ 
ing. When at length he felt satisfied that his instructions 
had been completed, he was extremely pleased with the 
result, and declared he had never seen a more attentive 
pupil. 


CHAPTER Y. 


HER HERO. 

“And your home 1 ?” cried Ubaba after a long pause. 
“You have not told me of your country, nor of the people 
who make these queer weapons.” 

“My country, princess, is far, far away, beyond the 
blue hills yonder; across the wide, rolling ocean a thou¬ 
sand times wider than the great river Kubanda. We 
travel thither in large boats capable of carrying hundreds 
of people, and though, with their large sails, they go 
much faster than any boats on your rivers, yet it is 
months and months ere we can reach its shores. ’ ’ 

“How is it, then, that you are here alone, so far from 
your land? Have you friends in my father’s country, 
or among the savages who dwell beyond, in the great 
land from which the river flows?” 

“That, lady,” the stranger answered slowly, “is a 
long story. However, you are my friend, and I shall 
tell you all. 

“More than a year ago, a party of six of us, all hot- 
blooded young fellows, landed on the shores of your 
beautiful continent, and started to explore the vast 
regions which lay within. Accompanied by a number 
of guides and bearers whom we employed in the land 
that borders on the sea, we made our way in boats or 
on foot up the river for weeks and weeks, learning strange 
things about your wonderful country, and collecting rare 
and curious objects. 

“Two of our companions died on the way, but still 
the rest of the party pressed onwards, for, daily, new 
wonders of creation were disclosed to our eyes. 

“At length, when we had reached the country of the 

21 


22 


UNDER THE SKIN 


Monbuttoo, some six hundred miles farther up the river, 
we rested one night not far from the village of a native 
chief. As was our custom, two of the guides remained 
on watch while we slept. Some time before daylight 
I was awakened by a strange commotion, and, sitting 
up, I found that we were surrounded by a ghastly group 
of Monbuttoo warriors. Not one of our natives was any¬ 
where to be seen, and whether they had made their 
escape, or had betrayed us to the savages, I never was 
able to discover. However, there we were; four defence¬ 
less Englishmen in the power of a hundred merciless 
cannibals. Our weapons had been taken from us while 
we slept, and as we could not speak in their tongue, 
there was, indeed, little hope left for us. One of our 
party struck down a huge savage with a blow on the 
cheek. In an instant a dozen spears were in his breast. 
Poor George! It was the last I ever saw of him, but I 
can guess the rest.” 

“I, too,” sighed the girl, a tear glistening in her eye, 
“for I have often heard my father speak of the Mon¬ 
buttoo, and of their horrible habits.” 

‘ ‘ The rest of us, ’ ’ continued the traveller, ‘ ‘ were bound 
and separated, and I have yet to learn what became of 
my two companions. As for me, I became the property 
of a swarthy giant, who led me to his village, and kept 
me imprisoned. I knew my impending fate, and could 
not understand why it was delayed; but I was after¬ 
wards convinced that I was being fattened and kept 
for some great feast-day. 

“Besides myself, the chief had one other prisoner,— 
a Zandey,—and from him I learnt the little of your 
language I now speak. I have no means of knowing just 
how long I remained in this captivity, but it must have 
been several months, and during that time your country¬ 
man and I became fast friends. 

‘ 1 As the day of the great feast approached, my fellow- 
prisoner and I tried to devise plans for our escape, but 


HER HERO 


23 


none seemed feasible. On the morning when we were 
taken out to be slaughtered, however, a desperate plan 
entered my head, and I made up my mind to put it into 
execution. The outcome could be nothing but death, and 
that, whatever I did, was staring me in the face. 

“My companion and I were led out together, securely 
bound. About a dozen men of the village were already 
congregated to perform the ceremony upon our bodies, 
and others were fast arriving. I turned to my gaoler. 

‘Great chieftain/ I said in the Zandey dialect, 
‘before I die, let me, I pray, explain to you the secret 
of the iron rod you took from me. Thus will you have 
power over your enemies, and no other chief will be 
great like you.’ 

“He conferred with his companions for a moment, 
then replied,— 

“ ‘Should you try to deceive me, your death shall be 
slow and painful. There are enough here to execute 
my orders. ’ 

“ ‘Nay, great chief,’ I answered, ‘my life is in your 
power. But I claim one boon,—that should I deal fairly 
with you, my death be sure and swift. What hope of 
escape have IV 

“He nodded, and ordered one of his attendants to 
bring my gun. 

“ ‘My wallet, too,’ I cried. ‘Part of the secret is in 
the bag. ’ 

“In a little while the man returned, bearing both. 
The gun had been unloaded, but in the bag were an ample 
store of ammunition, three small pocket-guns, each with 
two chambers, a long hunting-knife, and some other 
articles. For some queer reason this package had not 
been disturbed, probably because they did not know 
how to use its contents. 

‘ ‘ While waiting for the bearer’s return, I had fidgeted 
around till my back rested against the wall of a hut. 


24 


UNDER THE SKIN 


My hands had been untied, as I explained that I could 
not show how to use my weapon otherwise. 

“When the gun was handed to me, I loaded it for 
the chief and his party to see, carefully explaining every¬ 
thing so that they should be able to do it for themselves ; 
and, indeed, it was one of the most attentive crowds I 
have ever seen. 

“ ‘Now/ said I to the chief when both barrels had 
been loaded, ‘if you will look down into that end, you 
will see what happens when I pull the trigger here. ’ 

“He raised the muzzle to his eye, and as he peered 
down into the barrel, the ball went whizzing through 
his brain. Before he had time to fall, I had fired the 
other barrel at another husky giant who stood beside him. 
In another second my pistols had barked six times, and 
six other warriors had fallen. With one deft cut of my 
knife, I severed the thongs that held my companion, and, 
together, we sped from the spot. 

“Stunned by the great noise of the gun, or, perhaps, 
ignorant of the tragedy that had so suddenly been 
enacted, not a man stirred to stay our move. Not till we 
darted off did they seem to realize what had occurred. 
Then a hue and cry was raised, and the crowd rushed 
after us. But we had a good start, and we needed no 
urging to convince us that our utmost speed was 
necessary. 

“We reached the river a hundred paces ahead of the 
nearest pursuer. Luckily, a boat was standing in the 
water. We sprang into it together, and, each seizing an 
oar, we rowed for dear life. 

‘ ‘ The Monbuttoo gave chase, but we soon out-distanced 
them, and though they hung to our trail for the greater 
part of the day, we at length lost sight of them. All 
that night, however, and part of the next day, we never 
slackened speed; but at last, when we felt sure that our 
pursuers had given up the chase, we made a short halt, 
and got a small store of provisions. 


HER HERO 


25 


The following day we reached the Niam-niam coun¬ 
try, and my companion left me. He would have me stay 
in his village for a while, but I feared news of the 
presence of a white man in the neighborhood might reach 
my enemies, and again lead them to take up my trail. 
So for two days I kept on alone, then as my provisions 
gave out, I drew up my boat into a little creek and came 
ashore hunting; and here you have found me.” 

Ubaba’s eyes were sparkling. 

“You dear, brave warrior,” she cried. “I have 
already claimed you as my friend, and now I am proud 
of you. I have always detested the dastardly Monbuttoo, 
but, cruel, heartless cannibals, I hate them more for 
what they have done to you. And what shall you do 
next?^ 

“That, my lady, I hardly know,” the man replied. 
“For a day or two, I shall not be able to row my boat; 
yet I doubt not I shall be safe in these woods.” 

“I know not,” said the maiden, speaking rather to 
herself, “what welcome would await you at my father’s 
house, and before I risk your safety, I must learn my 
mother’s opinion of white men. Ours is a strange coun¬ 
try,” she added with a sigh. “It may be hard for you 
to understand the emotions of our people, yet, should 
danger threaten you among us, I am afraid I could not 
intercept it nor protect you. ’ ’ 

“I assure you, lady,” said the man, “my safety is not 
worth your anxiety. In this forest I shall remain un¬ 
harmed until my wounds are sufficiently healed to permit 
me to proceed on my journey. Pray forget the 
adventurer you have met.” 

“Nay, of that let me judge,” answered the maid. 
“But stay; beyond the cliff yonder, there is a narrow 
cave in the rock. Often have I sat there alone, and no 
one visits it save only my maid, Piriba, and myself. 
There you shall remain in hiding, until I bring you word 
again. Can I help you to walk, so far ? ’ ’ 


26 


UNDER THE SKIN 


The man struggled painfully to his feet, while Ubaba 
helped him up, and tenderly supported his wounded arm. 
For, strangely, while her moral code prohibited a man 
from touching her, it seemed to permit her freely to 
touch and minister to the wants of the sick. 

After a slow and painful scramble through the thick 
woods, the pair at length reached the cave, a small 
crevice in a huge rock, and the man wearily threw him¬ 
self on a couch of soft moss. Ubaba darted away, and 
in a couple of minutes returned with an armful of fruits 
and nuts. 

“Eat these now,” she said, “for you are hungry. 
Later you will have something more sustaining. ’ ’ 

The stranger caught eagerly at the treat, and soon 
devoured it. Then his nurse interposed once more. She 
applied a fresh supply of herbs to the wounds, and 
bandaged them more carefully. It was the first opportu¬ 
nity the man had obtained of seeing the extent of his 
hurt, and his heart fell within him. But it gave him 
a higher opinion both of his nurse and of her remedies; 
for the pain was totally out of proportion to the appear¬ 
ance of his injuries. 

Ubaba readjusted his couch, adding fresh grass and 
boughs to make it more comfortable. Next she placed 
a few large branches in front of the cave, so as com¬ 
pletely to conceal the entrance. Then at last she returned 
to the invalid. 

“Now you must sleep and rest,” she said. “Anon I 
shall return, and shall bring you food and comforts,— 
the best the daughter of Ntikkigama can offer to a 
wounded warrior. Mina patiro.”* 

(< Mina patiro,” the man replied. “Pray accept my 
heartiest gratitude for your many kindnesses.” 

Five minutes later, Ubaba, with a light step and a 
lighter heart, was bounding along the path that led to 


# Mina patiro, —farewell. 


HER HERO 


27 


her home. For within her breast had been born that 
day a new sensation and a new light,—the feeling which 
grows into that instinctive womanly satisfaction at 
sacrificing all they possess for the well-being of those 
whom they adore. 


t 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE FABULOUS WHITE MAN. 

Reaching her home, Ubaba lost no time in finding her 
mother. That distinguished lady was seated in one of 
the smaller rooms of the palace, and in her hand was a 
large wooden bowl of exquisite workmanship, carved in 
a most intricate manner, upon which she was placing 
the finishing touches. 

Alali looked up as her daughter entered, and repaid 
her genial smile with an effusive welcome. 

“Mother,’’ Ubaba blurted almost breathlessly, “are 
there any white men?” 

Alali was not surprised by the sudden question. 
Within the last few weeks her daughter had plied her 
continually with some of the queerest and most uncon¬ 
nected enquiries, and she had always striven faithfully 
to satisfy this insatiable greed for strange information. 

“The father of my grandfather,” the mother replied 
slowly after a long pause, “was a prince among the 
Ibani people in that great country beyond which the 
sun sets, and where the waters of the mighty seas dash 
themselves upon its shores. In that country, I have 
been told, white men have been seen. Thither they come, 
from some distant land, in massive boats, with wings like 
eagles’, that flit about from place to place. But where 
they come from, no one knows; and, as they are wild and 
ferocious, people have always avoided them, and they 
have kept their own counsel. ’ ’ 

“Are they like the savages who dwell beyond us in 
the land beneath the rising sun,* my mother?” asked 
Ubaba. 

* The Monbuttoo,—on their eastern border. 

28 


THE FABULOUS WHITE MAN 29 

Somewhat like,” assented the mother, “though, if 
the reports of them that have reached me are true, they 
are even wilder savages, and more bloodthirsty. When 
they come to the land of my fathers, they steal away men, 
women, and children, and, placing them in their boats, 
fly away to some wild and distant country, where they 
feast upon them.” 

“Are they cannibals, my mother?” Ubaba asked with 
wide-open eyes. 

“Indeed they are, my child, and far more detestable 
than the accursed Monbuttoo, for while the latter feast 
only upon the victims of their raids, the white men make 
no exceptions.” 

“What do they look like?” asked the maid; for she 
felt certain that the white man she had seen, with his 
honest blue eyes and his countenance open as the sky, 
could not be of this variety. 

“Indeed, my child, I have not seen them, and tell 
you only in the words of those who have seen this 
accursed people and lived; and they are few. It is said 
that they have the beak and claws of the night hawk, 
and feet with a hoof like a goat’s. Their face and hands 
are white, but the rest of their body is covered with a 
loose, flappy skin of various colors. Of this skin they 
divest themselves at nights, also of their hoofs; and in 
this state they are able to fly about, and to enter houses 
through the smallest cracks. Then they rob away the 
babes from their mothers’ breasts, and take them away 
to their ships; and no one dare interfere to stop them. 
When they clap their hands, it makes a noise like 
thunder; and smoke and flame burst forth, and destroy 
those at whom they have been directed. Indeed, the 
tales that have been told of these people are well-nigh 
incredible. ’ ’ 

“Would you have a white man come to our village, 
my mother?” the girl asked guilelessly. 

“May the Great Light protect us from such a calam- 


30 


UNDER THE SKIN 


ity!” gasped the mother in real alarm. “But have no 
fear, my child. The arms of your father are strong, and 
the warriors of our people are valiant. Ere the white 
monsters may drink the life-blood of our beloved, their 
hoof must leave its imprint on the bosom of Ntikkigama, 
aye, and crunch, too, the forehead of Alali. Have no 
fear, child. At least, they visit not these parts.’’ 

Such, indeed, was the description of the white man, 
as furnished by Alali. But could any English mother 
of that day give to her child a more accurate description 
of the natives of Central Africa? Indeed, up to the 
present day, nearly two centuries later, neither race 
seems fully to know the other, while their conjoint 
progeny,—an unnatural hybridization,—portrays too 
faintly for complete analysis the characteristics of either. 

Ubaba hung her head and slunk from her mother’s 
room. How had her dreams and hopes been dissipated! 
This man, who had won her pity and her esteem, was 
no better, after all, than the despised Monbuttoo. 

Yet, could she believe it of him? Her heart, her true 
womanly instinct, told her that the accusation was 
unjust. True, her mother’s word had heretofore been 
her only law, and never could she believe her wrong. 
But Alali had admitted that she had never seen a white 
man. What she said was only from hear-say, and might 
she not have been misinformed? Ubaba decided, what¬ 
ever the consequence, she would not yet give up her 
mission. 

“Piriba,” she called. “Hey, Piriba.” 

“My lady’s hand-maiden,” answered the girl ap¬ 
proaching. “What does my lady wish?” 

Ubaba led the maid out into the field, and sat beneath 
a large tree, where the approach of any intruder would 
be readily observed. Piriba sat beside her,—for the 
distinction between mistress and slave among these 
people hardly justifies the use of these harsh names. 
The slave ate from the same dish, drank from the same 


31 


THE FABULOUS WHITE MAN 

bowl, and slept in the same bed with her mistress. They 
were to each other as sisters, or dear friends; and the 
only real distinction was that the slave, by a studied 
form of oral adulation, strove to enhance the social 
importance of the master or mistress. 

“Piriba,” said the princess, “I have ever trusted 
you. ’ ’ 

1 ‘The speech of my tongue,” Piriba answered, 4 ‘the 
sight of my eyes, or the speed of my legs, move only 
as my lady shall direct. The daughter of Orumbo has 
never failed in the service of the Lady of Kubanda.” 

“I know it, maid,” Ubaba replied, “yet this is a very 
serious matter. Can you be faithful to the death, 
Piriba ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My lady is unkind to doubt, ’ * answered Piriba 
simply. 

“I doubt you not, Piriba. I trust you fully. I must 
have your help, and, chiefly, your advice; for I have 
rejected those of my mother.” 

Piriba gazed in open-eyed astonishment, for anything 
like the young princess ’ disobeying her mother was abso¬ 
lutely unthinkable. 

“Mistake me not, Piriba,” Ubaba hastened to explain. 
“I have not consulted my mother on this phase of the 
question, because I fear her opinion would differ from 
mine. But you will judge, and counsel me.” 

“The gentle heart of my lady cannot think wrong,” 
answered the slave-girl, her fear allayed by the princess ’ 
explanation. 

“In the woods near the river,” said Ubaba, “there 
lies a wounded warrior who is in sore need of help. Can 
we succor him, Piriba?” 

“Is that all, my lady?” cried Piriba, relieved. “The 
mbanga of Ntikkigama has never been closed to the 
brave nor the unfortunate. My lady has but to speak, 
and the wounded man shall be brought hither and tended 


32 UNDER THE SKIN 

as if he were my mother’s brother, though he had slain 
my father.” 

“Nay, Piriba,” the princess answered, “we must tend 
him where he is, and keep him there without letting 
anyone know aught of it. I fear he would not be welcome 
in the mbanga of my father.” 

“The noble Alali to close the door against a wounded 
warrior though he were a thousand times a foe! ’ ’ gasped 
Piriba. ‘ ‘ Surely the Lady Ubaba talks in her sleep. ’ ’ 

Ubaba did not speak for a full minute. Then, sud¬ 
denly, she asked, “Piriba, have you ever seen a white 
man ? ’ ’ 

“Nay, my lady,” answered Piriba smiling, “there are 
no white men, save only in the tales our mothers told 
to scare us when we were naughty children.” 

“What did your mother tell you about the white 
men?” Ubaba asked. 

“That they are ferocious beasts, with a bird’s beak 
and the hoofs of a goat,” answered Piriba. “That at 
nights they remove their skin, and fly from house to 
house, devouring little children.” 

Again Ubaba was silent for a long while. Then she 
spoke once more,—so softly that the other could barely 
hear her words. 

“Piriba, this wounded warrior is a white man.” 

Piriba sprang from her seat startled; then, looking 
full at her mistress for a moment, she replied defiantly, 

“There are no white men, my lady.” 

“Piriba, this wounded warrior is a white man,” 
reiterated Ubaba so softly that her words were hardly 
audible. “He has neither the bird’s beak nor the goat’s 
hoof. Indeed, he is in no way unlike other men, except 
only in his color. Nothing else about him is unnatural, 
and though his dress is much different from ours, I do 
not think it unbecoming. You will see him for yourself, 
provided you will help me to tend him.” 


THE FABULOUS WHITE MAN 33 

Piriba scanned her mistress ’ countenance to make sure 
that she was in earnest. Then she answered, 

4 ‘ The task is over-dangerous, my lady. Why not send 
a dozen of your father’s warriors to deal with him?” 

“Where the foot of Ntikkigama falls,” said Ubaba 
slowly, “be it in battle or in the chase, the foot of the 
brave Orumbo is ever the first to fall behind. Does the 
daughter of Orumbo hesitate to follow where the 
daughter of Ntikkigama leads on an honorable mission ? ’ ’ 

“I fear but for your safety, my lady,” cried the 
trembling Piriba. “How could I return to tell the 
noble Alali that ill had befallen the child of her bosom?” 

“Ill?” cried Ubaba, “And where would you be, 
maiden, to see ill betake the daughter of your chieftain? 
Dared either of us live and see ill betake the other, or 
would the father of either return to Bakinji alive with 
tale of his companion’s death? Piriba, I thought 
otherwise of you.” 

“But, my lady,” cried the maiden,- 

“It is enough,” answered Ubaba. “Had I known you 
a coward, I had not spoken to you about it. A coward 
is never to be trusted. I shall go alone, and the great 
Gumbah will protect my steps, even as he hath this day 
done.” 

Piriba covered her face with her open hands, and 
great sobs shook her entire frame; for among the Zandey 
no epithet was more opprobrious than coward. Ubaba 
bent towards her maid, and placed an arm around her 
neck. 

“Forgive me, darling,” she coaxed. “I have been 
unkind,—oh, so unkind. This meanness is as foreign to 
my nature as cowardice is to yours. Kiss me, Piriba, 
and say that you forgive me.” 

Their lips met, and the next moment the incident was 
completely forgotten in their preparations to visit the 
wounded warrior. 

Here and there the two maidens hastily gathered one 



34 


UNDER THE SKIN 


dainty and another for their prospective patient. Soon 
Piriba had a large basket packed with every available 
article that their charge could require; and, although 
when Ubaba’s back was turned, she slipped a long knife 
beneath her mantle, she showed not the slightest 
external sign of the terror she felt over the coming 
adventure. Then, each bearing a basket of supplies, 
they quietly left the house, and plunged eagerly through 
the forest in the direction of the hidden cavern. 


CHAPTER VII. 


TIES THAT BIND. 

Quietly parting the screen of branches that hid the 
opening to the cave, Ubaba peered cautiously within, 
then motioned to her companion. The latter, trembling 
with both fear and curiosity, placed a quivering hand 
on the handle of her knife,—still covered beneath her 
mantle,—before she reached the improvised doorway, but 
something in the pale, worn face at which she gazed, 
disarmed her of her antagonism, and almost before she 
knew it, the wounded stranger had completely won the 
sympathy of Piriba. Ubaba, quick to read her maid’s 
expressions, saw at once the change of emotions, and, 
smiling with a kind of I-told-you-so approval, stepped 
boldly into the apartment. Piriba did not hesitate to 
follow her. 

The white man opened his eyes, and as they met those 
of Ubaba, a smile lit up his countenance, and removed 
what little of opposition the slave-girl still retained. 

“Have you returned already, my princess?” he asked. 

‘ ‘ I trust you have had some sleep, my friend, ’ ’ Ubaba 
answered, ‘ ‘ and feel refreshed. I have brought you some 
little things that you may need . 9 ’ 

“How shall I ever thank you?” the man answered. 
“Such devotion dwells not else between the opposing 
shores of your vast continent.” 

“Nay, malign not people of whom you can know but 
little , 9 ’ Ubaba replied, though her smile robbed the words 
of any sting they might seem to convey. “Among our 
tribes, the door of hospitality has never been closed to 
the destitute nor the friendless; while, as for the wounded 
warrior, his very name is a pass-word into the hearts 

35 


36 


UNDER THE SKIN 


of our people. But drink this soup, and have some bread. 
Hunger is worse than wounds.” 

She passed him a bowl, not of soup, but of a kind of 
stew, in which were the legs, breast, and wings of a 
chicken, and several small pieces of yam. The concoction 
was not unpalatable, and as the white man, during his 
stay in Central Africa, had learnt to dispense with salt, 
he enjoyed the dish to the last morsel. Then she passed 
him a pitcher of beer, and though he hesitated some time 
before he would sample the beverage, he at length raised 
the vessel to his lips and took a long draught. 

Not till then did Ubaba trouble him with questions, 
but when, at last she felt that his wants had been sup¬ 
plied, she sat down on a projecting rock not far away, 
motioned her maid to another, and set herself to find out 
what she could about the white races. 

“Is that how all the men of your tribe dress?” she 
asked pointedly. 

‘ ‘ In the same fashion, with slight variations, ’ ’ he 
replied. “Some of my people spend large fortunes every 
year for different dresses, and the styles are somewhat 
varied; but, on the whole, I do not believe you can find 
much fault with my dress, save only that it is worn and' 
soiled.” 

“ I do not find any fault with it, ’ ’ she replied hastily. 
“I rather like it. Is this the skin of the animals of your 
country ? ’ ’ 

“Nay, lady; that material is woven from the hair of 
a kind of goat, and this, from the fibres of a plant, much 
after the way you weave your baskets. ’ ’ 

“How pretty,” she said, inviting the attention of her 
companion. “And what are the animals of your 
country ? ’ ’ 

The Englishman gave a list. 

“Do you eat the flesh of these animals?” she asked. 

He named some that were eaten. 

“But you eat other flesh?” she persisted. 


TIES THAT BIND 37 

Birds and fish/’ he replied. “I cannot think of any 
other. ’ ’ 

“And children,” she reminded innocently. 

* ‘ Children ? ’ ’ gasped the white man in real horror.,. 

“Yes,” she replied. “Don’t you eat the flesh of 
children ? ’ ’ 

“Nay, princess, no white men eat human flesh.”' 

But the white men take away the children, aye, and 
the men and women, too, from among our neighbors, 
and from the land of my mother’s ancestors, and, in 
their great boats that fly like eagles, they bear them 
away to their country, from whence they never return. 
There they feast upon them. ’ ’ 

“Nay, my princess, you have been deceived,” the white 
man answered. ‘ ‘ Some cruel men of our race do, indeed, 
bear away the people of your land, but not to kill them. 
They make servants of them to work in their fields and 
in their houses, but they give them dresses such as the 
white men wear, and food such as the white men eat, and 
comforts such as the white men enjoy.” For even then 
he would not unravel to her innocent eyes the barbarities 
of negro slavery. 

“I am so glad,” she said relieved, “for when I saw 
you, I could not believe this horror concerning you. Yet 
so it has ever been related to us.” 

The questions with which Ubaba, and at rare intervals, 
Piriba, too, plied the traveller, and the answers he gave, 
though highly interesting to the two African maidens, 
would be common-place to the modern reader. When the 
approach of night forced them to depart they had a good 
store of information regarding the white man and his 
country, and though much of this was beyond their com¬ 
prehension, they understood enough to keep them in 
eager conversation till they reached their home. 

Early next morning, Ubaba and her companion again 
made their way to the wounded man, taking him fresh 
supplies^ and giving him the closest attendance. Day 


V. 


\ 

V 

■- 

38 UNDER THE SKIN 

after day this course was pursued, long hours were spent 
in conversation, and the girls learnt new wonders about 
the distant country where the white men lived, till they 
wished they could see some of these mysteries for them¬ 
selves. 

Ubaba had asked the man to teach her the tongue of 
his country, for she was very fond of learning new 
languages; and so talented was she in this department, 
that in less than a week she could hold conversation with 
him in halting English. So pleased was her instructor 
at this success, that, partly to while away his time, he 
offered to teach her to read; and though he had much 
difficulty in explaining the process to her comprehension, 
when once she got hold of the idea, she made such 
extraordinary progress that within an incredibly short 
time she could read easy sentences which her teacher 
wrote for her. 

This extra activity so filled up the white man’s time 
that when he felt strong enough to resume his journey, 
he was astonished at his quick recovery, as well as loth 
to leave those who had, with their black faces and queer 
dresses and customs, nevertheless, endeared themselves 
to his heart. 

On the day preceding his departure, Ubaba summoned 
one of her most trusted slaves. 

“Renjy,” she said, “you have ever been faithful and 
discreet. I have a mission for you, which, so you shall 
serve me well, will endear you forever to the heart of 
your mistress.” 

“It shall be untold honor to serve you, lady,” Renjy 
answered. “What is your will?” 

“I have a friend,” said the princess, “who must reach 
the great sea safely and secretly. It concerns my honor 
that no harm befall him. In the ginger grove by the 
small creek, a boat lies hidden. Thither take such pro¬ 
visions as will serve for the whole journey; Piriba shall 
assist you. On the morrow the stranger departs, and 


TIBS THAT BIND 


39 


/ 

you shall accompany him; yet no one must know of your 
destination. To the great sea must you guide and protect 
him, and to what safety he shall elect; then you shall 
be free to return as you will. You are brave and loyal: 
the honor of Kubanda rests upon you.” 

‘‘I shall not fail you, my lady,” Renjy replied with a 
low bow. “I have no allegiance save only to my lord 
and to my princess. I shall serve you faithfully.” 

“Do so,” said Ubaba, “and a fitting reward shall 
await your return. Yet, one word of caution. This 
stranger is one whom you might at first account an 
enemy. Notwithstanding whatever else you have been 
told, I promise on the word of a Zandey and a princess, 
that he is a brave warrior, a true man, and a faithful 
friend to me and to my people. Serve him truly without 
fear, and Ubaba shall not forget.” 

“I shall do your will without reserve, my lady. My 
father fell in the service of my lord your father, and for 
the honor of Kubanda. I have naught to fear.” 

“It is for this reason that I have selected you,” said 
Ubaba, “and because you have no kindred to whom you 
must explain your journey;—for it is a long and danger¬ 
ous one. Yet return when you will, and bring me word 
of your safe voyage. Farewell, Renjy. You have the 
confidence of Ubaba. May Gumbah protect you! ’ ’ 

Next day Ubaba reached the cave earlier than usual, 
accompanied by Piriba; for never once since she had 
undertaken this new charge did she visit his residence 
without the escort of her maid. 

In the dark shadow upon her dusky brow, no less than 
in the vacuous shiftlessness of her hitherto sparkling 
eyes, the white man could read the sorrow that his leave-' 
taking meant to her; and, truth to tell, though his path 
once more led towards civilization, the Englishman did 
not feel anxious to tear himself away from her. 

“To your people you will go,” said the girl, “and be¬ 
cause of your treatment among the savages who dwell 


40 


UNDER THE SKIN 


at the head of the river, you will tell tales of the cruelty 
of the natives of Africa,’’ 

“Wrong me not, my princess,” he replied. “What¬ 
ever treatment the great African wilds shall mete out 
to me, the first thought that the name of Africa will 
ever recall must be of the kindness I have received at 
your hands.” 

“I thank you,” said the maiden. “You have taught 
me to love and trust the white men; and if they be like 
you, or like your description of them, I shall welcome 
them among my people. Unfortunately, the impression 
of them among us is not such that their presence in our 
country at this time would be hailed with joy. But when 
it comes to my time, I shall do much to change the popu¬ 
lar opinion. 

“Some day, when the worthy Ntikkigama shall be no 
more,—may the Great Light preserve him!—then his 
responsibilities will fall upon his daughter, and I shall 
be Queen of Kubanda, for I am his only child. To walk 
in the footsteps of my noble father, to be the first in hunt 
or war, will not be the lot of his unfortunate successor. 
But if I cannot emulate him in these respects, may I 
not excel him in others ? To open up my country to the 
white adventurers, so that they may teach our people 
all those wonderful arts of which you have told me;— 
would not that be noble of the Queen of Kubanda, and 
would not posterity bless my memory? I want you to 
return, I want your countrymen to come with you, when 
I am ruler of my country.” 

“I assure you, lady, no wish will be dearer to the 
hearts of my countrymen than to visit the land I shall 
paint to them,” the Englishman replied. “I promise 
you I shall return to lovely Kubanda; and my country¬ 
men will flock to join me. But will you not, princess, 
deign to visit our lovely England; to see its people, and 
learn their customs? Then more assuredly would you 


TIES THAT BIND 


41 


be able to put into effect those reforms of which you 
speak. Indeed, I should guarantee your safe return.’’ 

“It must not be thought of,” the princess replied, 
though a touch of longing hung upon her words. ‘ ‘ I wish 
I could, but it is impossible. Without my mother’s 
knowledge have I daily communicated with you, but to 
tear myself from her bosom would be death and shame. 
Nay, nay; I shall not argue the question. Yet judge not 
of the daughter of Ntikkigama by what you have seen.” 

“I understand, princess; and I honor your decision. 
But we shall meet again. The word of the Englishman 
is inviolate as your own. Meanwhile, as a slight re¬ 
minder, and as a token of the deepest gratitude, will the 
princess of Kubanda accept a small keepsake from her 
devoted servant?” 

The souvenir was an English shilling. At one edge, 
the Englishman had, with remarkable patience, drilled 
a small hole, and through this a piece of twine had been 
fastened. On one side of the coin he had also deeply 
cut his initials,—A. H. P.—for he knew that in Kubanda 
the coin had no chance of being used as currency. ’ ’ 

“With all my heart I thank you for the gift, kind 
friend,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with joy; for all 
her race was particularly fond of any form of orna¬ 
ments, and silver was unknown. “I shall be proud to 
accept it, and to wear it on my bosom in remembrance 
of my dear friend and teacher. I hold sacred the 
promise of your return, and my heart shall long for you. 
And now, good-bye. The day waxes, and you must go. 
At the creek you will find your boat provisioned, and a 
rower there to guide and assist you;—Renjy, a faithful 
kinsman of mine. Unto the coast will he serve you, 
then he shall be free to do what he wills. Have I your 
promise ?” 

“I promise, my princess, and again I thank you,” the 
man replied. ‘ ‘ And now, farewell. May the princess of 
Kubanda ever be happy!” 


42 


UNDER THE SKIN 


He held out his hand to her. 

The princess looked steadily into his eyes for a second, 
then smiled. 

‘ 1 The white man he no remember, ’ ’ she said in her best 
English, “Kubanda, the lady, she no wed, no touch no 
man the hand; no, no, no.” 

“Forgive me, my princess,” he replied, also in his 
native tongue, “but for once my emotion carried me 
away. When I return to Kubanda, I shall have all your 
customs carefully rehearsed. Farewell.” 

“Good-bye,” she smiled. “Come back again,—all the 
white men too. Kubanda welcome all when Ubaba is her 
queen. Good-bye. May the Great Gumbah protect your 
path! ’ ’ 

A large tear fell on her hand as she left the cave, but 
she turned to her maid with a smile. 

‘‘I shall miss him, Piriba,’’ she said; “he taught me so 
much. ’ ’ 

“But he will return,” replied the other, “when the 
princess of Kubanda shall assume the place of the noble 
Ntikkigama,—may Gumbah preserve him! And the 
noble Ubaba will make him chief of Kubanda on the 
throne beside her, and he shall be her lord.” 

Ubaba was silent for a minute. Then she answered, 
as if in deep thought, 

“It may be, Piriba; it may be. He is brave and true; 
a warrior like unto my honored father. I may grant him 
honor when he return; I cannot tell.” 

Then the two girls walked slowly to the mbanga of 
Ntikkigama, and not another word was spoken. For the 
future Queen of Kubanda had lost her heart,—and to one 
so far beneath her that she dared not admit it even to 
her devoted slave. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE SUIT OF WANDANGO. 

Three uneventful years skipped by. Renjy had not 
returned, and no word had come of the fate of the white 
adventurer. Piriba had, on several occasions, referred to 
him, but the pained and flushed confusion which her 
mistress evinced, soon led her to greater caution and 
more restraint; and lately she had avoided the subject 
entirely. But she watched with grave concern the de¬ 
votion, almost to idolatry, of the young princess for a 
carved shilling attached to a string, which she wore 
around her neck, and a tiny package of papers with 
markings on them, over which she would often pore for 
hours at a time, then gaze towards the sinking sun with 
a dreamy, hungry look in her eyes. 

The princess, though considerably grown, was not 
strikingly different from what she had been three years 
earlier. But as she had already reached, and, in some 
opinion, was passing, that age at which girls of her tribe 
married; and as Ubaba, besides being in her own rights 
a princess in direct succession to the chieftaincy of her 
father, was considered a maiden of surpassing beauty, 
and of superior wit and intelligence among the belles of 
Bakinji, it is not surprising that frequent appeals to 
her father for her hand in marriage had been made. 

In the majority of cases, such an appeal was all that 
would be necessary to the betrothal and marriage of a 
Kubanda girl; but both Alali and her daughter con¬ 
tended, and Ntikkigama did not demur, that since every 
indication pointed to the probability of the maiden’s be¬ 
coming the next ruler of her country, she ought to have 
her own free choice in the selection of a mate who, she 

43 


44 


UNDER THE SKIN 


felt, could nobly share with her the responsibilities of 
her position. And so it was that suitor after suitor 
had been rejected; for, like other maidens of her age, 
Ubaba had an ideal of her own, and this ideal had not 
yet appeared on the scene. 

It was not strange, therefore, that one morning there 
should appear at the hut of Ntikkigama, a royal mission 
from Wandango, king of the Mabode tribe, on the south¬ 
ern borders of Kubanda. The royal procession was an¬ 
nounced by two heralds, one blowing on a horn, while 
the other performed furiously on a small drum. Behind 
the heralds walked a portly chieftain, the chamberlain 
of the court of Wandango, accompanied by half-a-dozen 
warriors. Following these were as many slaves, who 
bore presents and supplies. 

Ntikkigama, apprised by his scouts of a friendly visit, 
sent out his heralds and a dozen men-at-arms to meet 
the company, and escort them to the royal presence. 
The party was entertained in an outer court, while the 
host donned his royal robes for the princely meeting. 

When at last this preparation had been completed, 
a courtier gave the signal, the musicians struck up a 
lively air, consisting more of noise than of music, and 
the visitors were led into the great reception hall of the 
palace. 

Nearly seven feet tall, with proportionately broad 
shoulders and great sinewy arms and hands, his beard 
oiled and brushed, his head erect, its long black hair, in 
multitudinous braids each no thicker than the tail of a 
field-mouse, surmounted by a rimless hat of the richest 
serval-skin on which gleamed one large glass bead above 
a row of small iron balls, Ntikkigama, clothed in a loose- 
fitting robe of colobus and genet skins interlaced, gazed 
indefinitely into space with the haughty arrogance of 
autocratic insolence, from a large chair at the farther 
end of the room, despite his rude setting, every inch a 
king and a man. A dozen courtiers sat on either side 


THE SUIT OF WANDANGO 


45 


of him, while before him a number of stools were placed 
in semi-circular rows, a slave standing behind each stool. 

As the visitors were slowly marshalled into the royal 
presence amid the tumultuous beating of drums and 
braying of horns, they quietly seated themselves on these 
stools, without so much as a glance from the king. When 
at length the procession had ended, however, the visiting 
chief arose, and, addressing his host with the circumlocu¬ 
tion of his race, spoke thus,— 

“Wandango, the supreme chief and great king of the 
Mabode, chief of the Mitanu, the Urabbabi and the 
Senaga, conqueror of Matanooti and of the country that 
lies beyond the river, unto the noble Ntikkigama, his 
friend and neighbor, by the mouth of his servant, 
Manuba, chamberlain of the royal household of Mabode, 
and first in peace as in war, sendeth greetings. May 
the house of Ntikkigama flourish for ever, and may he 
see the posterity of his children’s children. May the 
spirit of his ancestors never disapprove of his actions, 
and may his descendants call upon him in prayer! 

“Furthermore, unto the great Ntikkigama, doth my 
lord and master, the worthy Wandango, send presents 
and gifts; to wit, one bundle of lances,”—a slave ap¬ 
proached with a bundle of lances and knelt before the 
king,—“which, may they never fail in battle or in the 
chase; secondly, one bundle of skins,”—a second slave 
brought up his tribute,—“which, though they may add 
neither to the dignity nor the splendor of the house of 
Ntikkigama, yet show the noble intentions of my master; 
thirdly, one pair of elephants’ tusks, which, may they 
ever be a pedestal to the royal throne; and, fourthly, one 
basket of costly dishes for the noble lady of Ntikkigama, 
the worthy Alali; and may her heart be kind unto my 
lord of Mabode. 

“And, furthermore, that the land of the Mabode and 
the land of the Kubandans shall be as one land, and that 
the chief of the Mabode shall for ever look with favor 


46 


UNDER THE SKIN 


upon the chief of the Kubandans, and that his children’s 
children shall bless his name and revere him, and that 
posterity shall be raised up unto the noble Ntikkigama 
who shall do sacred reverence unto his memory; my lord 
the king of the Mabode doth crave the hand of his 
honored daughter, the worthy Ubaba, to whom also, doth 
my lord of the Mabode, the magnificent Wandango, send, 
as a token of his deep devotion, one necklet of iron with 
heavy iron balls, and may they rest lightly upon the 
breast of the noble Ubaba.” 

Here the last slave approached, with a stout iron chain, 
to which iron balls were attached at regular intervals, 
a necklace popular among the wealthy ladies of several 
African tribes, and weighing over twenty pounds! 

With the superbly majestic dignity inherent to a race 
of kings whose first ruling ancestor had been lost in that 
mythical nebulosity of a newly-formed world, Ntikkigama 
rose slowly to his feet, and addressed his visitors: 

“Ntikkigama of Kubanda, to Wandango of the Ma¬ 
bode, greetings. May the spirit of his ancestors make 
him wise. And for the presents of Wandango, thanks 
from all the household of Ntikkigama. May his store¬ 
house ever increase. 

“Nevertheless, unto your lord shall you say that the 
house of Kubanda has never accepted a price for its 
daughters, and, though feeling honored, cannot accept 
his presents. And of the Princess Ubaba, you shall re¬ 
turn unto your lord and say that the princess will choose 
for herself a lord who shall delight her, and her father 
will not coerce her heart.” 

“In that ease,” replied the ambassador, “pray intro¬ 
duce me to the princess, that I may inform her of the 
devotion of my master, and take him an answer from her 
own lips.” 

“It is but fair,’’ answered the king; then, to a courtier, 
he added, ‘ 1 Summon the Lady of Kubanda. ’ ’ 

Indeed, as was customary, Alali and her daughter 


47 


THE SUIT OP WANDANGO 

were in an adjoining room, within earshot of the entire 
proceedings, and were ready to appear. In a minute, 
therefore, the two stood in the midst of the assembly. 

Ubaba, slight and erect as one of her own palm-trees, 
clothed in a single skin of milky whiteness that draped 
her entire figure, a wreath of wild convolvulus around 
her head, walked slowly, majestically to the foot of her 
father’s throne, and, bowing her entire body in a graceful 
courtesy, said in a clear, ringing voice, 

“You sent for me, my father.” 

“The noble Wandango,” replied her father, “king and 
supreme chief of the Mabode, by the word of his servant 
Manuba, sends you greetings and presents. The worthy 
Wandango, further, solicits in marriage the hand of the 
honored princess of Kubanda.” 

“May the noble Wandango prosper/’ said the maiden, 
turning to the envoj^s, and speaking in slow, sweet tones; 
“and you, his servants, may you ever be valiant and 
true. In the palace of Ntikkigama this night you shall 
rest upon new mats of finest popukky, and all you desire 
shall be given unto you. On the morrow you shall return 
unto your master, and our warriors will guard you to 
the borders of our kingdom. And this shall be your 
answer to your lord,—and you will deliver it unto him 
even as it is sent, in all humility of spirit and grateful¬ 
ness of heart, not ignorant of the high honor the noble 
Wandango has conferred upon my poor maidenhood by 
the flattering offer. Yet, unto your master shall you 
say that the daughter of Ntikkigama, unworthy though 
she feels herself, may not accept the honor the noble 
chieftain of the Mabode desires to confer upon her. 
Nevertheless, the princess of Kubanda desires to retain 
the good friendship of the powerful Wandango, which 
she hopes she has not forfeited by her necessary refusal; 
and may posterity bless his name. ’ ’ 

“The Lady of Kubanda,” said Manuba, rising, “has 


48 UNDER THE SKIN 

not given her reason for declining the offer of the noble 
Wandango.” 

“Nay,” replied Ubaba, “surely a maid may decline 
an offer of marriage without burdening her suitor with 
reasons, which must be as unpalatable as they are un¬ 
necessary. 5 ’ 

* ‘ Then perhaps the princess, on maturer thought, may 
reconsider her refusal,” Manuba persisted. “The king 
of the Mabode is rich and powerful.” 

“I know it,” Ubaba answered; “yet the decision of 
the daughter of Ntikkigama is irrevocable.” 

‘ ‘ Then, honored lady, ’ ’ said Manuba, ‘ ‘ it may only be 
meet for me to say that Wandango will not soon forget 
this insult.” 

‘ ‘ Insult, forsooth! ’ ’ Ubaba laughed. ‘ ‘ Must a maiden 
wed every suitor w r ho approaches her ? What then if she 
be betrothed to one; must she break it for another?” 

‘ ‘ For an offer from the king of the Mabode, she should, 
indeed, madam; for Wandango is by far the most power¬ 
ful chief in the land, and that which he does not receive 
upon request, he will assuredly take by force.” 

“By force?” answered Ubaba with a smile. “But, 
indeed, noble Manuba, your language surpasses the au¬ 
thority of a messenger. Yet you have my answer to your 
lord. With that return, and with greetings to him from 
the daughter of Ntikkigama.” 

Ubaba glided from the chamber, the king arose, and, 
amidst a thunder of acclamations, was ushered from the 
apartment, and the entire audience separated. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE CHIVALRY OF KUBANDA. 

Ubaba accompanied her mother to her room, and, with 
a sigh of relief, sat on a stool beside that reserved for 
the elder lady. Alali bent over to kiss the brow of the 
maid, and could not help observing the cloud of worry 
that overhung the girl's shiftless eyes. 

“You were right, my child,” the mother said sooth¬ 
ingly? “and spoke like a daughter of the house of Ku- 
banda. 'Twere worse than death to your mother and 
your people, to behold the daughter of Ntikkigama no 
better than a cast-off mistress in the crowded harem of 
that moth-eaten old profligate of the Mabode. You an¬ 
swered wisely, my daughter. ’ ’ 

“It was the only answer I could give, my mother,” 
replied Ubaba, “yet I fear that I have incurred upon 
the head of my unhappy father the unfailing enmity of 
our powerful neighbor.” 

“Nay, my child,” the mother answered, “your father 
is not unhappy. Even you, my love, can never know 
how all our happiness is wrapped up in you. Of Wan- 
dango's enmity we may, indeed, be assured; yet when 
has the valiant Ntikkigama been unhappy to lead his 
brave warriors against any foe ? ’ ’ 

“It is even so, my mother,” sighed the princess, “yet 
how must I feel to know that brave men must suffer and 
die to protect a helpless maiden? Oh, Great Creator, 
why didst thou ordain for us women that ever we must 
bring sorrow upon those who love us?” 

“Nay, maiden,” said Alali, “brave men are brave 
because they suffer happily to protect the helpless and the 
pure. Believe me, child, no man who hurls a trumbash 

49 


50 


UNDER THE SKIN 


to protect the princess of Kubanda from dishonor, shall 
balk at death, or sorrow at eternity. True nobility of 
purpose is its own highest reward. ’ ’ 

“Your words are cheering, my mother,” answered 
Ubaba, “and I glory in the valor of my father, and the 
honor of my countrymen. Oh, that I, too, could bare 
my bosom to the hungry javelin of the unbearable Ma- 
bode! Then would the detestable Wandango see that 
the daughter of Ntikkigama would bravely welcome death 
rather than his licentious embrace; then would the 
warriors of Kubanda know that they fight not to defend 
the honor of a coward!” 

“Nay, child,” replied the mother, “no new incentive 
is necessary to the valor of your countrymen. As for 
your bravery, who can doubt it ? But women must show 
their courage in other ways, and fight their own sorrow¬ 
ing hearts while their dearest ones face death in their 
protection. That the daughter of your father would not 
shrink from death in defence of her honor, none believes 
more firmly than your devoted mother. May Gumbah 
protect you!” 

“I thank you for your kind and noble words my 
mother,” said the girl, “and you shall see that you 
have not misjudged the daughter of your bosom. But 
I must seek my father, and give him words of devotion 
in this his hour of suspense.” 

“No suspense marks your father’s course, Ubaba. 
Ever forward in the fray, he well knows the temper 
of the bloodthirsty Mabode, and will not be taken unpre¬ 
pared. But go. Your words may yet cheer him to 
greater valor.” 

It was even as Alali had said. In the armory of the 
palace, Ubaba came upon the warrior, busily overlooking 
his weapons. He turned as his daughter entered, and 
kissed her tenderly between the eyes. 

“You are a dear, brave girl,” he said, “and have made 
your father proud of you. The arm of Ntikkigama shall 


THE CHIVALRY OF KUBANDA 51 

avenge the insult this day offered to the princess of 
Kubanda. ’ ’ 

“You think, then, that the Mabode will attack us, my 
father,’’ said Ubaba. 

“Early on the morrow,” the chief answered. “Ere 
the ambassadors reached my court, I had word from my 
scouts that a great band of Mabode warriors, a thousand 
strong, was massed upon our southern borders. The 
wily Wandango, dishonorable in war as in love, foresaw 
your refusal of his infamous proposal, and had prepared 
to strike at once. Indeed, I believe the offer was only 
intended to provoke a quarrel; for the toothless old 
chieftain of the Mabode, a contemporary of my father’s, 
well knew that no Kubanda virgin would ever accept his 
embraces. 

“No sooner was the reception ended, than one of the 
slaves of the mission departed without attracting any 
attention. Manuba and his companions are enjoying 
our hospitality without apparent knowledge of the 
absence of this slave. Yet I have discovered that he is 
no slave, but is even Lasango, a great captain of the 
Mabode, who has been entrusted by Wandango to provoke 
the quarrel, and then lead his army to sack Bakinji. 
Early to-morrow the ambassadors will leave peacefully, 
and, without our borders, will meet Lasango and his 
army, and give them an account of our strength and pre¬ 
paredness. Then the band will attack us. ’ ’ 

“And will you let the spies go, my father?” gasped 
Ubaba, aghast at the Mabode scheme. 

“It were dishonorable to imprison peaceful messen¬ 
gers,” replied Ntikkigama, “and such, only, our visitors 
would claim they are. Yet little of information shall 
they take to the enemy.” 

“Are our men prepared to meet them?” the maid 
enquired. 

‘ ‘ Eight hundred armed men of Kubanda will this 
night sleep with their spears beside them,” the king an- 


52 


UNDER THE SKIN 


swered. “The valiant Orumbo will see to that, though 
our visitors must know nothing of it. To our out-lying 
territories have we hurried messengers, and a thousand 
men of our people will be here in a couple of days, should 
a second Mabode army follow the first; but of Lasango’s 
thousand, we can easily dispose unaided.” 

“Alas, my father,” cried Ubaba, falling on her knees 
and embracing the warrior’s legs. “Alas that your 
daughter should bring sorrow upon you, and death upon 
your people!” 

“Nay, maiden,” answered the king, lifting the girl 
in his great, brawny arms, and soothing her like a child, 
‘ ‘ war, to the men of Kubanda, has never been accounted 
sorrow; and death in defence of honor has ever been 
welcome.” 

“Yet, the men of Mabode are considered mighty 
warriors, my father,” said Ubaba, “and our men can 
neglect nothing. Several of necessity must fall, and my 
heart bleeds for the widows and orphans who must, to¬ 
morrow, mourn the loss of husband and father. I know 
that these should not be the words or the thoughts of a 
maiden whose father is the foremost warrior of her land; 
—a maiden who may some day,—may the great Gumbah 
long postpone it,—have to direct the destiny of her people 
and their martial policy: yet, forgive me, my father; I 
am not a coward, but, after all, I am only a girl.” 

The rough, bearded lips of the warrior pressed those 
of his daughter. 

“I do not misjudge you, Ubaba,” he replied, “and I 
take pride in the thought that though Gumbah has not 
given me a son, yet when I am laid with my fathers, the 
land of Kubanda shall still have a ruler whom it can 
love and trust; one for whom her warriors will gladly 
sacrifice their lives. As for the widows and orphans 
whose protectors die in defence of honor, they are the 
proudest memorials Kubanda can raise to the glory of 
the heroes who have made her what she is. They become 


53 


THE CHIVALRY OF KUBANDA 

the children of the state, and any warrior is bound to 
protect them even with his life. Yes, maiden, not for the 
princess only, but for the meanest virgin in all Bakinji, 
a thousand brave men are ever ready to shed their life¬ 
blood. Well may you be proud of your countrymen. ’ 9 

“And its maidens,” cried Ubaba passionately, “what 
can we do ? Must we ever be helpless creatures, de¬ 
pendent only on the valor of brave men for even the 
preservation of our personal honor? Must we claim the 
heart-blood of the noblest heroes of our land, and give 
nothing in return ? Give me, too, a shield and spear, 
and let me march in the ranks. The Lady of Kubanda 
shall show that the blood of Ntikkigama flows in her 
veins. ’ ’ 

“Nay, princess,” soothed the king, “that may not be. 
The warriors of Kubanda would count it dishonor could 
they not safeguard the sanctity of their women. Indeed, 
it is the women who give most; for, while we can but 
give our blood or be acclaimed cowards, ye give all else 
that we have, and that, freely. Ye give us love, ye give 
us courage, ye give us honor, ye give us labor, ye give 
us thought, ye give us counsel, ye give us even life itself. 
The men of Kubanda account it their only chance of 
honor to protect their women. You will not rob them of 
that. ’ ’ 

“Then, my father,” said Ubaba, “if I may not draw 
spear in my own defence, I shall hie on the morrow to 
the holy temple, and the fragrant savor of sacrifice, with 
the united chant of the sacred bundu, shall all day rise 
unto the Almighty in prayer for the victory of our 
arms, the safety of my father, and the repose of the slain. 
In this, at least, may I aid the warriors who fight for 
blessed Kubanda.” 

“That you may well do,” answered the father, “and 
in that, you will aid us. The other maidens of the house¬ 
hold may accompany you.” 

“Nay, my father, none but the sacred bundu may 


54 


UNDER THE SKIN 


congregate together. The other women of the household 
shall prepare dressings for the wounded, and shall apply 
them. Piriba and my honored mother will direct them.” 

“You know what is best,” Ntikkigama replied. “I 
thank you for bringing me words of cheer, and am doubly 
proud of my noble daughter. Now I must advise with 
Orumbo, for the time presses, and there is much to ar¬ 
range. Farewell.” * " 

“Farewell, my dear father,” said Ubaba. “Gumbah, 
the Almighty, protect you, and his great strength em¬ 
power your right hand! Your exertions, and the ex¬ 
ertions of my people, for the honor of Ubaba shall never 
be forgotten.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE WRATH OF THE MABODE. 

Early on the following morning the messengers of 
Wandango, accompanied by a small escort of Kubanda 
warriors, made their departure from the court of Ntikki- 
gama, and no sign of concern or distrust appeared among 
their hosts. 

No sooner had the Mabode visitors departed, however, 
than Orumbo marshalled into the courtyard of the palace, 
a chosen band of Kubanda heroes, eight hundred strong. 
The men, great swarthy giants, moved en masse with 
regular military precision, exhibiting a discipline and 
amenability to orders hardly to be expected in the in¬ 
terior of Africa. 

Each soldier bore a shield some four feet long and 
eighteen inches wide, with which, with remarkable dex¬ 
terity, he was able to cover his entire body. Their 
weapons were spears, long knives, and trumbashes; the 
trumbash consisting of five or six sharp iron spikes so 
joined that the points stuck out in all directions. In the 
court behind them, great stores of extra weapons were 
piled, and some rude preparations for the reception and 
care of the wounded in the day’s bloody conflict had even 
been made by the women of the party. 

Ntikkigama passed down the long column of men in 
a final review; and, as he greeted one veteran here, or 
reminded another there, of the many conflicts in which 
they had participated together, his black eyes beamed 
with pride and satisfaction. And well they might; for 
nowhere in all Africa,—nowhere in all the world,—could 
a finer regiment of soldiers be mustered. 

Before the review was completed, however, another 

55 


56 


UNDER THE SKIN 


figure appeared on tlie scene. Ubaba, lithe and graceful, 
in the adornments befitting her position, strode ma¬ 
jestically up to her father’s side, and asked quietly, 

“My father, may I speak?” 

Ntikkigama, surprised, but confident of his daughter’s 
ready wit, and not ignorant of her lofty though some¬ 
what strange ideals, nodded assent; and Ubaba, the 
cynosure of all eyes, reaching the middle of the fore¬ 
most rank, raised her hand to command silence, and said 
in a clear, ringing voice,— 

“Men of Kubanda, my fathers and my brothers, I 
greet you. Often have ye gone forth, the light of battle 
gleaming from your eyes, to chastise your enemies and 
win glory for yourselves. Never have the war-drums 
sounded but the warriors of Ntikkigama have been found 
ready to answer the call. Ye have fought bravely for 
yourselves, for your country, for your chief; but to-day 
ye fight for the honor of a helpless maiden. 

“Ye have daughters, ye have sisters, ye have wives. 
Nay, more; there is not a man among you but respects 
the honor of the stranger who dwells within the borders 
of your country. When, therefore, ye this day face the 
accursed Mabode, ye will remember that ye fight to 
protect the maidens of your land,—your daughters and' 
your sisters. Ye fight, above all, for the honor of Ubaba; 
and to the victor shall the trophy belong. 

“Were there doubt of the result of the conflict,—were 
there doubt that the chivalry of Kubanda is able to pro¬ 
tect its women,—then had the daughter of Ntikkigama, 
too, taken shield and spear, and be foremost in the field. 
But I know it is otherwise, and our maidens will be safe. 

“In the temple of Gumbah this day will the sacrifice 
and the prayer of the sacred virgins rise to the Almighty, 
and the Princess of Kubanda shall lead the choir. Ours 
is the fight, and the maidens of our land shall aid in the 
only way in which they are permitted. 

“It is enough, my warriors. Ye have ever been 


THE WRATH OF THE MABODE 


57 


valiant and noble; I know ye cannot be less. However 
ends the encounter, ye have this day forever won the 
gratitude of Ubaba, and of the maidens of Kubanda.” 

A lengthy applause, augmented by trumpets and 
drums, greeted the speech, and Ubaba disappeared. If 
her object was rather to give a view of the fiery queen 
who was some day to succeed to the throne of Ntikki- 
gama, her appearance was a master-stroke. Not what 
she said, but that she said something, mattered alone to 
these fiery sons of the wilds. 

Before the cheering had entirely ceased, a scout came 
flying in, with news of the approach of the invaders. 
Ntikkigama at once dispatched a company of about two 
hundred men, all picked veterans of countless fights, un¬ 
der Orumbo, on some secret mission. 

“Upon you,” he said, “will the brunt of the battle 
fall. Yet ye shall resist stubbornly to the last man. 
When the fight is hottest, then help is nearest. 5 ’ 

After these had disappeared, the chief dismissed his 
men,—to hold themselves in readiness, however;—for 
he did not wish the Mabode to see at the outset that 
they were prepared for the encounter. 

In a short while, the great army of invaders had 
reached the outer guards of the village, and Ntikkigama, 
accompanied by only two of his men, went out to meet 
them. 

“Why come ye thus against a friendly neighbor,” he 
asked of the leader, who had halted his army upon a 
slight eminence overlooking the entrance to the town, 
‘ 1 and what is your grievance against us ? ” 

“When a prince like my lord of the Mabode,” said 
Lasango, who led the expeditionary force, “craves to 
exalt your humble daughter, you should fall in the dust 
at his feet. Who are you that would oppose the will of 
the mighty?” 

“Nay, good friend,” Ntikkigama replied, “in our 
country the wooing of a maid is her own affair. If 


58 


UNDER THE SKIN 


among the savages who own the sway of your ruler it 
be otherwise, then let Wandango seek among them a 
bride. ’ ’ 

‘‘Enough of. your vulgar palaver,” cried Lasango. 
“We came hither to fight, not to talk. Nevertheless, if 
you will forthwith bring your daughter, with such a 
dowry as may satisfy a king, the gracious condescension 
of our master permits us to return without razing and 
burning your detestable village.” 

“Nay, my friend,” replied Ntikkigama still calmly, 
‘ ‘ that is hardly fair. With our village and our villagers 
your chief has no quarrel, but with my daughter, and, 
peradventure, with me. If the chief of the Mabode de¬ 
sires the princess of Kubanda, let him meet her single- 
handed. If his arms be mightier than hers, or of the 
champion she may select to defend her honor, then he 
may take her to his abominable den.” 

“The king of the Mabode does not mix in the vulgar 
brawl,” said Lasango haughtily. 

“Forgive me, kind friend,” said Ntikkigama, smiling. 
“For the moment, I forgot that the king of the Mabode, 
besides being a bully, is also a coward. But among that 
vast rabble yonder, perchance there may be one valiant 
man who will raise lance against Ntikkigama, and de¬ 
fend the king of the Mabode against the princess of Ku¬ 
banda. What of their leader ? Will he not fight in honor 
of his master?” 

“Fight enough you shall have,” replied Lasango, “and 
that right hastily; for, unto your accursed mbanga we 
shall go, and your ill-bred daughter shall follow us to 
the court of Wandango, though a thousand devils barred 
the way.” 

“It is as I feared,” sighed Ntikkigama. “He, too, is 
a coward who serves a coward. But what else should I 
expect of one who, in the guise of a slave, would spy into 
an honest household? A sneak is ever devoid of honor.” 

Here Ntikkigama gave a signal, and a wild burst of 


59 


THE WRATH OF THE MABODE 

martial music rose on the air. At the sound, six hundred 
armed men came on the run, and ranged themselves 
beside their chief. 

“You shall have what you crave,” roared the king, 

and if one of your untrained rabble ever returns to the 
hut of Wandango, he shall bear such a tale as must glut 
the appetite of the lascivious old gormand for Kubanda 
maidens.” 

The rude weapons of savage warfare make the result 
of such a conflict partly a matter of brute-force and 
courage, and partly one of numbers. While the ad¬ 
vantage in the latter respect lay distinctly in favor of the 
Mabode, the Kubandans lacked nothing in great personal 
strength, and in the dogged tenacity with which they 
stuck to their purpose. Better disciplined, they showed 
much greater mobility than their enemies; and this 
greatly neutralized their inferiority of numbers. Where- 
ever the heaviest attacks of the Mabode fell, at that 
point was the bulk of Ntikkigama’s army to oppose them. 
And when the invaders retired from their first terrific 
onslaught, the hundred gory bodies left on the field were, 
by a large majority, Mabode. 

For fifteen minutes more the two armies rested a hun¬ 
dred paces apart, while orators from each side tried to 
outdo the other in oral vituperation. Then once more 
the grim work of death would intervene. 

Ntikkigama called upon his foremost rank to charge 
the enemy, and two hundred men, with short spears and 
daggers, started off on the run. Two hundred others 
followed twenty paces behind. But Lasango had pre¬ 
pared for just this manoeuvre. Sixty paces the column 
advanced, with no motion from the other side, then, 
whiz! a cloud of arrows darkened the air, and struck 
quivering in several shields. 

The entire company stopped abruptly, for the arrow 
was a missile wholly unknown to them, and for a mo¬ 
ment they were staggered at this strange weapon. Before 


60 


UNDER THE SKIN 


their leader could take in the situation, a second volley 
of arrows was discharged into their ranks. The archers, 
however, were themselves novices in the use of a weapon 
they had newly invented, and, what with poor bows and 
poorer bowmen, the damage done at this close range was 
incredibly small. Less than a dozen men had been 
wounded, and not one seriously. Yet the moral effect 
was distinctly in favor of the Mabode, and while the 
Kubandans halted, wavered and hesitated, Lasango 
called upon his spearmen for a second charge. 

This, indeed, was the only thing that could save the 
puzzled Kubandans. The sight of the double column 
charging down upon them restored their nerves, brought 
back the conditions of warfare to which they had been 
accustomed, and made them fighters once more. They 
met the Mabode charge, fought doggedly, and retired 
unconquered for their second spell of wordy warfare. 
Still, of the scores of new bodies that now littered the 
intervening space, a slight majority were Kubandans. 

The everchanging conditions of warfare render an 
adaptability to new circumstances almost instinctive 
among savage tribes. Ntikkigama once more prepared 
his leading column for another charge, and when the 
order came, more than two hundred warriors, armed 
only with daggers and shields, again charged the enemies. 
No reserves followed as formerly. They advanced per¬ 
haps seventy paces, when a storm of arrows met them 
full in the face. Like corn before the mower they fell; 
not thirty men were left standing. 

The survivors looked down at their fallen comrades, 
looked up at the Mabode again bending their bows, 
turned, and fled precipitately. This was too good an op¬ 
portunity for Lasango to lose, and he ordered his spear¬ 
men,—a half of his army,—to give chase and scatter 
the demoralized Kubandans. As he sped on at their 
head, he did not have time to notice how carefully the 
bodies of the fallen Kubandans were covered with their 


THE WRATH OF THE MABODE 


61 


shields,—all but their eyes,—nor did he see that their 
hands still held their daggers, point uppermost. Even 
when his men, in their dense formation, stumbled over 
these prostrate figures and fell beside them, he did not 
see that they had been stabbed from beneath. When at 
last he turned and saw that his ranks were thinned by 
half, he was face to face with the Kubanda spearmen. 
The fallen Kubandans had regained their feet, and were 
again attacking the enemy. The archers, it is true, 
tried to aid their deceived comrades, but their arrows 
did more harm to the naked backs of their friends than 
to the protected breasts of their foe. 

At this juncture, a sudden attack on the rear of the 
invaders completely surprised them. Orumbo, with his 
two hundred spearmen, had been lying in ambush close 
behind them before the battle began. Now that the signal 
they awaited had come, they dashed into the unguarded 
rear, and not only scattered it, but secured all the sup¬ 
plies. Ntikkigama, by a bold stroke, had divided his 
army of eight hundred men into three sections, one in 
front, one in the rear, and one in the middle, of an army 
of a thousand men! Yet, such was the suddenness and 
skill of this daring coup, the enemy, completely thrown 
off his guard, had no time to recover. Lasango and his 
followers were cut down without mercy; the others threw 
away their arms and fled. 

The conflict deteriorated into mere slaughter. The 
victorious Kubandans pursued the fleeing Mabode w T ith 
untiring relentlessness, and when, late into the night, 
they abandoned the chase, it is doubtful if three-score 
of Wandango’s thousand remained alive. 


CHAPTER XI. 


WITHOUT MERCY. 

While the bloody conflict was being waged at the gate 
of the city, the princess of Kubanda, with others of the 
sacred virgins and the priestesses of Gumbah fasted in 
the temple, and offered sacrifices and prayers to aid 
their countrymen. When at length these devotions were 
completed, Ubaba left the sacred edifice and hastened 
homewards, that she might aid in tending the wounded 
soldiers who had been brought in from the field. 

The temple, as has been said, was at the farthest ex¬ 
tremity of the village, in a very secluded spot, and the 
path home was lonely and untenanted. As the princess 
hurried forward, she looked neither to right nor left, but, 
with a mind devoted wholly to the day’s sad business, 
chanted absently one of the hymns she had just been 
offering to her Creator. Suddenly, from out of the 
thicket beside her, a blow fell upon her head. She sank 
in a heap to the ground, and knew no more. For, while 
in normal times any intrusion into these sacred demesnes 
would have been impossible, the call of all the men to the 
battle-field, and the drawing of all attention in that 
direction, gave ample opportunity to trespassers. 

When Ubaba opened her eyes, she was lying on the 
grass in a narrow pathway that led through a dense 
wood. It was a bright moon-lit night above the trees, 
but in the deep shade in which she lay, nothing was 
plainly visible. 

Two men were squatting beside her, speaking in the 
Mabode dialect, and as she turned to catch their words, 
she attracted their attention. 

‘ ‘ Are you awake at last ? ’ ’ asked one, peering into her 

62 


WITHOUT MERCY 63 

face. “Then you will walk, and save us much trouble. 
’Twas no easy work lugging you so far.” 

“Where are you taking me?” asked Ubaba faintly. 

“To your husband, wench;—to our lord of the Ma- 
bode. You were warned that what Wandango gets not 
for the asking he takes by force.” 

“You will not,” screamed the girl. “My father will 
avenge this insult to his daughter upon the entire tribe 
of the Mabode, unless ye return me at once to my 
people.” 

“Nay, maiden,” laughed the man, “your father will 
fight no more.” 

“What do you mean?” gasped Ubaba. “Surely no 
ill has betaken my father.” 

11 Fret not yourself, maiden, ’ ’ the man answered, ‘ 1 for 
all is past. The brave Ntikkigama has fallen in battle 
with Lasango, the city of Bakinji has been burnt to the 
ground, and the noble Alali has perished in the flames. ’ ’ 

“Oh, Almighty Light, save me!” cried Ubaba, real 
tears bursting from her heart. 

“We have saved you,” replied the man, though Ubaba 
hardly heard his words, “and Wandango will console 
you.” 

Ubaba did not reply. She laid her head upon her 
folded arm, and great sobs shook her entire form. Alone 
in the world, helpless, bound, the destined slave of a 
lascivious old debauchee, would not death come to her 
rescue? Dragged from communion with the sacred 
bundu, princess of Kubanda,—now queen, alas!—pure 
and unpolluted hitherto, must she live to be no better 
than the common manga * of whom she had heard such 
horrible tales? Her heart shrank and died within her, 
yet she uttered no word. 

From this stoical inertia, common to fatalistic natures, 
Ubaba was rudely aroused by her captors. 

* Nzanga, —prostitutes. 


64 


UNDER THE SKIN 


“Come,” said one of them, “you shall walk. The 
day appears, and our journey is not half done.” 

“Nay, my friend,” coaxed Ubaba, though she w r ell 
knew the nature of the people with whom she dealt, 
“urge me not away. If the worthy Ntikkigama,—may 
his memory be preserved!—has indeed been slain, then 
his daughter is Queen of Kubanda. Let me return unto 
my stricken people. Let me but go to bury my father, 
and to do reverence to his name. Come ye with me, and 
ye shall be my friends. Ye shall be as great chiefs 
among us, and shall sit in the councils of Ubaba. What 
preferments ye shall desire, that shall ye receive, and the 
honor which has been denied you at the court of Wan- 
dango, the ruler of Kubanda shall confer upon her 
friends. ’ ’ 

“Nay, maiden,” the man replied, “the servants of 
Wandango play not false to their trust. Nevertheless, 
we shall treat you kindly, and it may be you will speak 
well to our master, and bring us favor in his eyes.” 

They rose, and dragged Ubaba to her feet. Walking on 
either side of her where the road permitted, and in front 
and rear through the narrower tracks, they forced her 
along, though the progress was painfully slow. 

The sombre east was assuming the ruddy glow of 
morning, when half-a-dozen men, foot-sore and weary, 
bore down upon them from behind. The men seemed to 
be in the greatest haste, and as they reached the small 
party and recognized her captors, Ubaba heard one of 
them say,— 

‘ ‘ Dare you dally, friends ? They may yet be upon us. ’ 1 

“What has befallen our party?” one of the two asked. 
“Are ye in flight?” 

“The worthy Lasango has been slain by the king of 
Kubanda himself,” replied one of the company. “Our 
army has been destroyed by the legions of Ntikkigama, 
which outnumbered and surrounded us; the king and 
his men have pursued us late into the night, and if there 


WITHOUT MERCY 


65 


be another of our party left alive, we have not seen him.” 

“Then our mission has been more successful,” an¬ 
swered the man. “Behold the prize we take to our 
lord.” 

“Aye,” replied the fugitive, “but ye must hurry. The 
spear of Ntikkigama is sharp, and his legs will not lag 
when he learns that the princess is gone. We tarry not 
with you.” 

The men sped on, and her captors hurried Ubaba after 
them. The maid, however, had heard the tale the fleeing 
warriors brought, and her heart rose out of the dust once 
more. Her noble father, instead of being slain in battle, 
had completely routed the enemy, and had given hot 
pursuit. Would he miss her in time to follow and re¬ 
take her from the abductors ? It was her only hope. 

The two men used all their efforts to hurry the maiden 
along, and more than once struck her rude blows to 
hasten her steps, but still she moved more slowly. They 
dragged her roughly by the arms, but she suffered every 
indignity patiently, for well she knew that her only hope 
of life lay in delay. 

Before long, another group of three men, survivors 
from the ill-fated expedition of Lasango, also overtook 
them. These were in even greater hurry than the former, 
and scarcely halted as they shouted to their two country¬ 
men,— 

‘ ‘ He comes! The murderous Ntikkigama comes in hot 
pursuit. The princess of Kubanda is missing, and her 
father will demand her even at Wandango’s door. In¬ 
deed, ye must leave the maiden and flee, if ye would save 
yourselves. ’ ’ 

“Nay,” cried one of the men, “the maiden must come 
with us, and at the pace we desire. Her dallying shall 
be of no avail. Hasten, princess; this is no time for 
girlish whining;” and he struck her with all his force. 

Ubaba fell to the ground, and refused to stir an inch. 


66 


UNDER THE SKIN 


The men struck her repeatedly, but still she did not 
move. Then one of them said,— 

“Your father shall never rescue you. Either you will 
go with us, or we shall slay you, and cast your carcass 
into yonder thicket for the ravens to devour.” 

“Nay,” cried Ubaba desperately, “I fear you not, nor 
death. Slay me if ye will, but to the court of Wandango 
will I not go.” 

Once more the two men lifted her bodily and started 
off on the run. Soon, however, the weight they bore and 
the difficulty of the road made them halt, and lay their 
burden down. Again they spoke. 

“You shall walk with us, or you shall die. We have 
had enough of your foolery, and shall not be taken on 
account of you. It is your last chance. Will you come 
with us to be noble in the house of Wandango, or will 
you be thrown lifeless into the thicket where you will 
be meat for the jackals!” 

“To the court of Wandango will I not go,” answered 
Ubaba resolutely. “Yet, leave me here and flee. My 
father will find me, and not pursue you farther; it is 
for me alone he seeks. But if he does not find his daugh¬ 
ter, and that unharmed, then the land of the Mabode will 
know the wrath of Ntikkigama, for not a man will escape 
his spear, nor a hut escape his torch, till the honor of 
Ubaba be avenged. How say you, my friends; is the 
prize worth the price? Wandango has countless wives, 
and the Mabode have beauteous maidens. With them 
let him be satisfied. Ntikkigama has only one daughter. 
To him she is all, but to your chieftain is she worth his 
utter destruction and the destruction of his country?” 

“Enough,” answered one of the men. “We care not 
for your talk. Let your father do his worst; that will 
not bring you back to him, for you will be dead. Yet, 
if you have such faith in the prowess of Ntikkigama, why 
not proceed with us to Wandango? You said he will 


WITHOUT MERCY 67 

seek you even there. Why fear his power to rescue 
you ?’’ 

“And that he would,” answered Ubaba, “but what 
would he find there? Would he rescue the pure, un¬ 
sullied maiden who kissed his hand yesternight, or would 
it be but the dishonored form,—the empty husk that held 
his daughter? When I cannot look with honor into my 
father’s eye, I shall crave not rescue, but death.” 

“Then death you shall have,” roared the man, as he 
drew a short dagger from his girdle. “The Mabode are 
not easily balked.” 

Ubaba did not crave death. She hated it; she feared 
it, truth to tell, though she had said she didn’t. But 
she feared dishonor more. And as she gazed up at the 
cruel dagger gleaming down upon her, she shuddered, 
and a cloud passed over her eyes. But she was brave, and 
the brave flinch not from death, nor from any other thing 
that they fear. She never quailed, though now she saw 
in the cruel eyes of Wandango’s assassin that there was 
no hope. For a single moment her thoughts ran back to 
that fond father she was never to see again, who would 
face death without flinching; to that dear mother who 
had taught her to prefer honor to life; then she looked 
up at the horrible scowling visage above her waiting for 
her reply. 

“The daughter of Ntikkigama fears not death,” she 
lied,—lied bravely, without knowing that she lied; with¬ 
out allowing her enemies to know. ‘ 1 Strike, coward; 
strike deep and true.” 

She saw the great black arm rise, then closed her eyes, 
and braced herself for the last passing pang of pain. 

It did not come: oh, that it had! 

Ere the murderer’s arm came down, his companion, 
long lost in thought, sprang forward and held it up. 
Then he pointed in the distance before them, where a 
great body of men crossed their path nearly at right 
angles. The other gazed questioningly at the crowd for 


68 UNDER THE SKIN 

a moment without seeming to understand; but his com¬ 
panion said, 

“The caravan of the Darfoor traders. They pay hand¬ 
somely for young slaves, especially for girls, and would 
give us a fortune for her. ’Twere better than let so much 
flesh rot in the woods. We’ll trade with them.” 

In a few minutes they had reached the caravan, and 
the Darfoors were glad to purchase the young princess. 
And away, away towards the distant west, where the 
great ships came on eagles’ wings, and the white men 
loaded on them great hordes of human freightage, they 
bore Ubaba. 

What mattered it to any how the dauntless Ntikkigama 
sacked the entire land of the Mabode in untiring quest 
of his daughter? What mattered the tears Alali shed, 
her sleepless nights, her broken heart? What mattered 
the mournings of Piriba, and the many friends of Ubaba; 
the priestesses and the sacred virgins? What mattered 
the home broken up, deprived of its light, its joy, its 
only happiness ? What mattered blessed Kubanda, 
robbed of its future queen,—one whose noble ideals might 
have lifted it above any level it had yet reached ? What 
mattered the line of the honored Ntikkigama which must 
perish with his daughter? What mattered, crudest of 
all, the wounds and bruises, the hard blows and bitter 
words, the insults and inhumanity, the barbarity and 
indignity worse than death, the sleepless nights, the 
burning thoughts, the aching heart, that now became the 
lot of this simple child, lost to a world she had known 
and loved,—friendless, helpless, alone? 

What mattered all these now? Ubaba was no more; 
and slave-girl Number 147 on board the mighty ship,— 
a proud and rather quiet savage from the wilds of Cen¬ 
tral Africa,—was worth some eighteen, perhaps twenty, 
good English pounds in the markets of Virginia or the 
West Indies. 


PART II. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE RECOVERED VOLUME. 

Colonel Innisdale turned the worn volume over in his 
hand with a happy smile. 

“Thank you, Culberson,” he said. “Yes, it is the 
Collection of Goldsmith's Poems Major Crawford lent 
me. Where did you find it? I have searched for it 
everywhere. ’’ 

“One of the negroes had it, sir,” Culberson answered. 

‘ ‘ I knew it. The thieving villains; they shall pay for 
this. Crawford had just lent it to me, and it was in my 
bag when I stopped wfith you in the field a month ago. 
It was stolen then. We’ll put down these petty pilfer- 
ings, Culberson, or flay off their black hides. Which of 
the rascals did you say it was ? ’ ’ 

“That mulatto girl you bought from the Sutcliffe 
estates a few months back.” 

“Ha! That Fanny Morgan, eh? You’d never think 
it, looking at her. Didn’t you make some report to me 
about her before?” 

“I did, sir. That Fanny Morgan is a sly one, stubborn 
and saucy, and, withal, smarter than the average. But, 
of course, since you objected to my chastising the slaves, 
I can do nothing.” 

“Just so, Culberson; I understand that.” The 
colonel waived aside his rage to mollify his overseer, 
whose injured tone had not escaped him. “I have no 
doubt you act with the best intentions; but negroes cost 
a lot of money these days; and, you know, the last two 
boys you flogged were unable to work for more than a 

69 


70 


UNDER THE SKIN 


week after. But,” he warmed up to the subject again, 
“that has nothing to do with a case like this. Bring the 
girl, Culberson: she’ll get such a flaying as she’ll never 
forget. ’ ’ 

Culberson hastened from the office, and Colonel Innis¬ 
dale paced the floor, the recovered book in his hand. 

He was a man of less than medium height, with thick 
gray eye-brows, and large, kindly eyes, save when, like 
now, they grew fierce and glinted fire. He wore a white 
wig, powdered and scented, a red waistcoat embroidered 
with gold-colored lace, black satin knee-breeches, white 
silk stockings, and shoes of fine morocco, dyed blue. Prom 
a peg on the wall hung a three-cornered hat of black 
beaver, also trimmed with gold lace, and below it leaned 
a gold-headed cane. 

In a few minutes Culberson returned. He was accom¬ 
panied by a negress perhaps twenty years old, dressed 
in a single gown of coarse, striped cotton reaching down 
to her knees. She glared defiantly at Culberson, glanced 
at the colonel, then sank her eyes to the floor. 

Innisdale met her with a snarl of rage. 

“You, Fanny Morgan,” he said, “you had my book. 
Where did you get it? Come, speak up; no lying.” 

“Please, sir, one of the negroes gave it to me,” the 
girl answered in English surprisingly better than that 
generally used by slaves in colonial Virginia. “He said 
he had found it on the dumping ground.” 

“Lie,” roared the colonel. “It was stolen from my 
wallet in the field. Who gave it to you? Tell me that.” 

‘ ‘ Please, sir, I do not remember. ’ ’ 

“You do not?” cried Innisdale in a vehemence which 
shook the powder from his wig, and made the cobwebs 
tremble on the naked rafters. “Imp of the devil, will 
you lie to me ? I command you to name the thief. ’ ’ 

The girl did not appear awed by her master’s anger. 
She hesitated for a second, then once more answered, 

“Please, master, I do not remember.” 


THE RECOVERED VOLUME 71 

“That’s how she is, sir,” Culberson interjected sotto 
voce, “always stubborn and defiant.” 

“Enough,” cried Innisdale. “To the whipping-post 
with her, Culberson. We’ll see whether thirty lashes 
of the cat will not improve her memory or her manners. ’ ’ 

The overseer led the girl from the room, and she offered 
no resistance. At the door he muttered, 

“It is not too late to save you, girl, if you’ll say the 
word. ’ ’ 

She darted at him a glance which for a moment re¬ 
vealed the fire of hate she had so far repressed. Then, 
without other answer, she dragged herself forward in the 
direction of the whipping-post. 

This institution of torture and chastisement was an 
indispensable adjunct to the plantation of every large 
slave-owner in Virginia, and stood in an open space at 
one end of the negro settlement, where all the other slaves 
could witness, and, as they chose, deride or pity the 
miserable malefactor. What the stocks and the ducking- 
stool were to the poor whites, the whipping-post repre¬ 
sented to the negroes. 

Either Fanny Morgan had never seen one of the 
negroes whipped, and so had no idea of the humiliating 
torture to which she was to be subjected, or else she had 
to the full acquired that stoicism which depraved help¬ 
lessness eventually brings. Neither in feature nor in 
manner did she show the slightest sign of emotion, as 
she walked slowly to the post, and stood mute beside it. 

Johnson Culberson, machiavelian in his methods of 
castigation, well knew his victim, and felt that her will 
had not yet been broken. That alone he wished to ac¬ 
complish, yet that he surely would accomplish. In his 
own delay and the slave-girl’s apprehensions he felt his 
strongest weapon. It had worked before, and could not 
fail him now. 

Besides, Culberson had seen Miss Betty Innisdale, his 
employer’s daughter, looking at him from a window of 


72 


UNDER THE SKIN 


the Great House as he crossed the yard. She had opened 
the door, and followed immediately. Culberson divined 
that it was her purpose to ask mercy for the culprit, 
as she had done two or three times before. As he did 
not really wish to punish the girl, it would doubly serve 
his purpose to pretend to be gratifying the young mis¬ 
tress and saving the girl at the same time, provided he 
had first tamed the wild temper of this young savage. 

He fumbled with her hands, which he was tying around 
the post, while he spoke in a low conciliating tone: 

“Don’t be stubborn, Fanny. I can save you from this; 
can give you protection in future; food, clothing, rest, 
whatever you need. You lose nothing and gain all, if 
you will but-” 

She dragged her hand from his, and in the single move¬ 
ment sent it crashing against his cheek,—one clear, ring¬ 
ing slap that sounded through the negro settlement. 

‘‘Wretch,’’ cried Culberson, recovering from his as¬ 
tonishment, “you shall be sorry for that. Not all the 
countless devils of your accursed race shall protect you 
now, though you grovelled in the dust at my feet.” 

It was, indeed, a mutinous act; and not on any plan¬ 
tation in Virginia would it have been tolerated. Death 
itself would not, in some places, have been considered 
more than adequate punishment. 

He lashed her hands around the post, the thongs 
cutting into the dark skin; but she neither winced nor 
groaned. Then he raised the heavy whip that was to 
wreak his vengeance. 

“Wait, Culberson.” 

Miss Innisdale had seen the blow struck, and paused 
for a moment in confusion. Then she had, apparently, 
come to some sudden decision, for when her voice rang 
out, there was a tone of command which Culberson saw 
fit to ignore. 

“Wait, Culberson; I would speak with the girl.” 

“Sorry, Miss Innisdale,” answered Culberson, bowing, 



THE RECOVERED VOLUME 


73 


and trying to conceal his chagrin, “but the colonel has 
ordered the girl thirty lashes for theft and insolence. 
You just saw her unprovoked attack on me. We cannot 
allow mutiny of the sort to go unpunished. ’ ’ 

11 1 saw it, Culberson, ’ ’ said Miss Innisdale, ‘ ‘ and shall 
deal with it fittingly. I have as little patience with inso¬ 
lence as you. Untie her hands. ’ ’ 

“I regret that it is impossible to do as you request, 
Miss Innisdale,’’ said Culberson, “though I should do 
most anything to please you. The colonel’s orders have 
to be carried out.” 

“You mistake, Culberson,” said Betty with cutting 
coolness. “It was an order, not a request. You have 
been here long enough to know that my commands are 
obeyed by all my father’s servants, white or black. Untie 
the girl’s hands.” 

Culberson knew his employer’s hasty temper too well 
to oppose Miss Innisdale longer, for Miss Betty’s word 
was always law on the plantation. He yielded, but with 
a bad grace. 

“Very well, Miss Betty. But I shall report to Colonel 
Innisdale, and ask whose orders I should obey. ’ ’ 

“Do so, Culberson. My father will, probably, show 
you your proper place. ’ ’ 

Culberson unfastened the thongs, and the girl turned 
from the post. No look of gratitude was in her eyes 
for the lady who had saved her, but rather an expression 
of being bored. Miss Innisdale studied her inscrutable 
countenance for a silent minute, then turned towards the 
house. 

“Girl, follow me,” she said. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE NEW MAID. 

The mansion of Colonel Innisdale stood on a gentle 
slope overlooking the James River. The great old house, 
with its wide, flat frontage, and its two massive chimneys 
on either end, like overgrown ears on the head of some 
giant cat, sat sedately on the brow of the eminence. 

In front stretched a close-cropped lawn, green in the 
spring sunshine, with here and there a stately oak or 
beech or hickory, from the dense leafage of which came 
the chirp of a robin or the flutter of a blue-bird, while 
beneath its inviting shade stood a squat wooden bench, 
upon which the master or his family would often spend 
several restful hours. 

To the right, and slightly to the rear of the “Great 
House, ’ ’ stood the kitchen, a low wooden structure, with 
wide fire-place and a massive brick chimney, to which 
the building seemed a humble and unnecessary ap¬ 
pendage. Farther to the right, to the very edge of the 
dense woodland, stretched several acres of green vege¬ 
tables for the kitchen use,—peas, cabbages, turnips, 
melons, pumpkins, potatoes and corn, in the rank pro¬ 
fusion of a virgin country. 

To the rear of the kitchen and the garden, stood a row 
of dilapidated wooden cottages, the residences of the 
white servants. Still behind these, like a straggling ham¬ 
let of rude wooden huts, rose the residences of the slaves, 
the dark columns of smoke rising from them indicating 
that the various “mammies’’ were busy preparing the 
evening meal of hog and hominy. 

The massive barns and store-houses were on the left 
of the mansion, flanked by the smithy, the mill-house, 

74 


THE NEW MAID 


75 


and the work-shops of the several artisans; for the Vir¬ 
ginian plantation was always self-contained, and rarely 
needed help from without. 

In front of these, occupying the left of the wide lawn, 
was a magnificent garden of flowers; the choicest varie¬ 
ties of two continents, laid out with artistic taste, and 
tended with infinite care. It was at one end of this, 
in the shade of a large cherry tree, that Beatrice Innis- 
dale sank upon a small bench, the inscrutable negress 
still beside her. 

Rather slight for her height, Beatrice did not look 
her twenty-one years. The proud curve of her chin was 
belied by the large, kindly black eyes and frank, open 
brows, just as the plump arms and full rounded throat 
contradicted the suggestion of frailty. 

She wore an elaborately designed dress of finest im¬ 
ported muslin, the trim bodice adorned with the richest 
French laces, and the full skirt hooped, and covered with 
frill upon frill from the waist down to the hem. As 
she crossed her legs, one tiny shoe peeped out from its 
snug retreat: it was of choice white velvet, low around 
the ankles, and fastened with a single gold buckle. 

For a moment Miss Innisdale bestowed an appraising 
glance upon the variegated scene that stretched before 
her, then she fixed her gaze upon the girl. 

“What is your name?” she asked. 

“Fanny Morgan, ma’am.” 

“Why did you strike Culberson?” 

The girl stared stolidly at her, but did not answer. 

“Come, girl, answer me truly. You need have no 
fear.” 

“I am not afraid, Miss,” the negress answered with 
a touch of defiance. “I have no excuse.” 

‘ ‘ I am not asking you for an excuse, ’ ’ said Miss Innis¬ 
dale. “Just tell me the truth. I saw him speak to 
you. What did he say?” 


76 UNDER THE SKIN 

Again she did not answer. She showed no interest in 
the interview. 

“Well, why don’t you answer me?” asked the lady, 
tapping her foot impatiently. 

“I had heard that slaves who struck their masters 
were killed. I believed it.” 

For a single instant there was a note of desperation 
in her voice, and her fierce black eyes glistened. Betty 
Innisdale gazed up at her in surprise, but before she 
could fully comprehend the words, the girl’s features 
were as inexpressive as before. 

“Poor child,” she sighed. “Have they been unkind 
to you?” 

Still she was silent. 

Miss Innisdale rose impatiently. 

“Fanny Morgan,” she said, “I had taken an interest 
in you, and wished to befriend you, but your stubborn 
insolence is tiring. You may go.” 

She turned away without so much as a glance at her 
young mistress. Beatrice watched her silently for a 
moment, then called to her once more. 

‘ ‘ Fanny Morgan, you will report to me here to-morrow 
morning, instead of going to the field. I have work for 
you.” 

She paused till her mistress had finished speaking, 
but did not turn. Then she drifted slowly across the 
lawn in the direction of the negro quarters. 

Beatrice Innisdale turned from watching the girl, 
and walked towards the house. At one end she tapped 
lightly at the door of a small room, then pushed it open 
and entered. 

Dad, ’ ’ she said, £ ‘ I want another maid. ’ ’ 

Colonel Innisdale looked up quickly, a proud smile 
hovering about his mouth and eyes. 

“You do, darling? White or black?” he asked. 

“I have just selected that light-tinted girl you bought 


THE NEW MAID 77 

from the Sutcliffes a few months back,—Fanny Morgan, 
they call her.” 

Fanny Morgan?” gasped the colonel. “Why, she’s 
not a suitable girl for you, Bet. Culberson gives a very 
bad report of her.” 

“Culberson is serving his own ends, dad; not yours. 
The girl is tender-hearted, resolute, faithful and brave. 
I m always roaming the woods alone, and need just such 
an attendant.” 

“Surely you do, sweetheart,” Innisdale agreed, “but 
the girl has none of those qualities. The overseer must 
know her better than you do.” 

“If he does, which is probable, he must have his own 
reasons for deceiving you, dad. Some day you may 
discover that Culberson is not the angel he pretends to 
be.” 

“What do you mean, Bet?” 

Oh, I have no charge to make against him, ’ ’ answered 
Miss Innisdale. “I have shown him his place, and I trust 
he will not again forget. But I pity even the negroes in 
his power.” 

“Has he been insolent to you, Bet? If so, I’ll horse¬ 
whip the-” 

“We’ll drop that for the present, dad,” said Beatrice 
with an air of finality. “We’re talking about the girl. 
I have a favorite nook in the woods, where I like to sit 
and read. About a week ago, I was sitting there alone, 
when I saw three of the boys approach. On a bough 
of a near-by tree was a bird’s nest. They started throw¬ 
ing stones at it. In a minute they had knocked it over, 
throwing its tiny birdlings to the ground. 

“At that moment, Fanny Morgan emerged from the 
thicket. As soon as she saw what the boys were doing, 
she rated them soundly for it, and tried to recover the 
young birds. One of the boys,—a big black bully they 
called Bill,—pushed her away vigorously. She turned 



78 UNDER THE SKIN 

on him, and struck him a blow which sent him reeling 
backwards. 

“He came back at her like a mad bull, but the girl 
sprang swiftly out of reach of his mighty fists, then, 
quick as lightning, sent her own crashing into the base 
of his skull. The bully sank to the ground. She stood 
over him till he rose, but the laugh was on the other side, 
and Bill, with his two companions, moved sullenly away, 
leaving the girl in possession of the field. 

“She gathered up the tiny birds, looked them over 
carefully, smoothed out their scanty down, then, nestling 
them in her bosom, mounted the tree. She reached the 
nest, once more fastened it in its place, laid the nestlings 
cosily in it, and slid down again. None of them saw me, 
and I did not interfere. What do you think of that?” 

“It was fine of her, Bet,” Innisdale answered. “Yet 
that is all you know of the girl. ’ ’ 

“Not all, dad. That made me interested in her. When 
I saw her marshalled in here by Culberson a while ago, 
I knew he had made some report on her, and,—yes, dad, 
I listened. 

‘ ‘ I heard her refuse to tell you who had given her the 
book. Of course, that is the insubordination you termed 
it, yet, to me, her submitting to be whipped rather than 
betray another appeared in a different light. But, at the 
door, Culberson told her that he was still able to save 
her if she’d only say the word. She tore herself from 
him angrily, and proceeded to the whipping-post. There, 
under pretence of binding her, he continued to plead 
with her. At length, she tore her hand away, and gave 
him a vicious blow on the mouth. Yet she refuses to tell 
me a word of what her tormentor said. ’ ’ 

“If I knew that Culberson could be so mean,” said 

Innisdale slowly, “I’d-” 

“We are not discussing Johnson Culberson,” snapped 
Miss Betty. “I know nothing, and care nothing about 



79 


THE NEW MATH 

him. I have instructed Fanny Morgan to report to me 
in the morning. ” 

Do just what you think best, dear. I hope you have 
not been deceived in this girl.” 

Thank you, dad. Some day you 11 see that I am 
right. ’ ’ 

Meanwhile, Fanny Morgan had proceeded quietly to 
the negro quarters. Here she walked about as if in search 
of some one. At length she spied the object of her quest. 

“Here, you Cuffy; come here,” she called. 

A stalwart young negro approached diffidently. 

“Laws V massy!” he exclaimed; “wa’s, matter, 
Fanny, you look so bex?” 

“Where did you get that book you gave me?” Fanny 
asked . 

Don 1 Ah tol ’ you Ah fin ’ it at de dumps ? ’ ’ Cuify an¬ 
swered uneasily. 

“Yes, you told me that,” the girl replied, “but it was 
not true. You stole it from the master’s bag when he was 
out in the fields.” 

“Laws, Fanny, you didn’t get trouble ’bout it, did 
you?” 

“That’s nothing to do with it, Cuffy. You know I 
shouldn’t have accepted it if I knew you had stolen it. 
I have no use for thieves,—and liars.” 

“But—but, Fanny,” Cuffy stammered, “Ah didn’t* 
mean you to get trouble for it; hones’, Ah didn’t. But 
Ah lub you, Fanny, an’ when Ah see how you was 
jes’ nacherally cut up ober dat oder ol’ book what you 
losted, Ah jes’ made up my min’ dat Ah had to git you 
anoder. You am not bex wid me, Fanny, am you? Ah 
done it ’cause Ah lub-” 

“Ah, cut out that,” said the girl sharply. “I don’t 
want to hear any more of it. And listen you, Cuffy. 
As long as you live, I don’t -want you ever to speak to 
me again. I hate a thief, and I am not going to have 



80 UNDER THE SKIN 

any dealings with one. That’s what I sought you out 
to tell you.” 

‘ * Aw, please, please, Fanny, ’ ’ wailed the youth, ‘ ‘ don ’ 
be so hard on a feller what try to done someth’n fe you. 
Ah nebber thought de marster would ’a ’ know ’bout it; 
but, ef you say de word, Fanny, Ah’ll jes go right up 
to him now an’ tell him it was me, an’ not you, what 
took his ol’ book, jes’ so’s Ah might see your sweet 
smile, an’ hear your sweet voice again. Hones’, Fanny, 
Ah lub you, an’ Ah can’t-” 

“What atonement you wish to make,” said the girl 
with cold finality, “can be no concern of mine. I have 
said all I wished to say.” 

She turned away from the whining creature, humming 
a lively little air, as if the world held not a care for her. 



CHAPTER XIV. 


TWO SAVAGES. 

The. gulf between the house-slave and the field-slave 
was hardly narrower than that which separated the 
wealthy planter from the 4 ‘poor white ” in colonial 
Virginia. Indeed, the house-slave considered himself 
the superior of the white man who did not own a planta¬ 
tion and negro slaves to toil for him. 

This favored menial was often the companion and 
confidant of his white master or mistress. In dress, in 
language and in demeanor, he was unquestionably above 
his brother of the field, and his general interest in the 
entire fortune of the estate lent to his lot a sense of 
security and contentment unknown to the other. 

This gulf Fanny Morgan crossed with alacrity. Aunt 
’Lizbeth, the gray-headed and devoted old mammy of 
all at Innismount, welcomed her with open arms, and 
made her feel at home from the very start. Miss Innis- 
dale, prejudiced in favor of the girl, and additionally 
sympathetic since the single note of despair she had 
surprised from Fanny, was strongly drawn to her, and 
tried to fathom the mystery of her nature. 

Of these kindnesses Fanny Morgan was not un¬ 
appreciative. She obeyed the orders of her mistress with 
faithful promptness, and studied her wishes so well that 
soon she need not wait for the spoken word. In her 
dealings with the other servants, she cultivated a spirit 
of communal good-will which helped to make life 
pleasanter for all around. Yet, withal, Fanny retained 
a silent aloofness, an unwillingness to discuss either her 
own actions or any other matter that did not come 

81 


82 


UNDER THE SKIN 


directly into the business of the day, which rendered 
her every act, and her very self, much of a mystery. 

“Did you finish reading Goldsmith’s Poems?” Miss 
Innisdale asked her as she came upon her dusting the 
library one morning. 

“Yes, ma’am; twice,” she answered. “It is a wonder¬ 
ful book.” 

“It is,” Betty assented. *‘ What other books have you 
read?” 

“I read one called the New Testament, and another 
called the Boston Almanac ” she replied; “also some 
newspapers.” 

“That’s very good. How did you learn to read?” 

She hesitated for a moment. 

‘ 1 1 learnt the letters long ago, ’ ’ she answered. ‘ ‘ Then 
there was an old woman on the Sutcliffe Plantation who 
could read, and I used to go to her of evenings and beg 
her to teach me.” 

“I am pleased to hear that, Fanny,” said the lady. 
“There are many who contend that books should be 
placed beyond the reach of negroes, but I am not one 
of them. I believe there are many valuable lessons 
which your people can learn from our best books, and 
whenever it is possible, I shall allow you to read some 
of them.” 

“I thank you, Miss Betty,” the girl answered, and 
her eyes sparkled. “I love books.” 

“Did you know your father?” Miss Innisdale asked 
innocently after a pause. For the conditions which, in 
spite of ill-framed laws laxly enforced or wholly dis¬ 
regarded, were then filling Virginia with that hybrid 
race of which the girl seemed one, were not unknown 
to Betty. But Fanny did not understand the question. 

“Of course I did,” she answered sharply. 

“Ah, then he taught you to read.” 

“No ma’am. He cannot read.” 

“Indeed? Where is he?” 


TWO SAVAGES 


83 


Her bosom rose and fell. Then she turned away from 
her mistress without giving an answer. So all enquiries 
into her life had been balked. 

Miss Innisdale loved the open. Often she would go 
for long rides over the miserable country roads, or 
through the flat plains which skirted the river. At other 
times she would spend several hours in the woods and 
forests that fringed her father’s estate. On these, she 
would often take the girl with her; and Fanny seemed 
to share her love for the wilds and her interest in the 
beauties of nature. In this way there speedily grew 
between the pair that strong attachment proverbial 
between the southern mistress and her favored negro 
attendant. 

One other person enjoyed Miss Innisdale’s complete 
confidence. She was Eleanor Crawford, only daughter 
of Major Crawford, whose plantation adjoined that of 
Colonel Innisdale, though their residences were some 
ten miles apart. 

The two girls possessed little in common. -Eleanor’s 
robust figure was adorned by a rather florid face, blue 
eyes, and golden hair. Beatrice, frail and slender, had 
eyes and hair of jet, with a complexion which had made 
no less a connoisseur in wine and women than Lord 
Dunmore himself declare her “the Rose of Virginia, 
and the most beautiful woman outside of England.” 
Eleanor was gay and witty, where her friend was quiet 
and serious; and though Miss Crawford danced mag¬ 
nificently and rode with skill, she was wdiolly unequal 
to the physical exertions of the other. 

Yet they were almost inseparable, and were together 
whenever the opportunity offered itself, either at the one 
residence or the other. 

One of these opportunities invariably came whenever 
a ship from England arrived at either plantation, bring¬ 
ing its rich load of wines, silks, woollens and muslins, 
shoes, hats, carpets, furniture, tools, and other neces- 


84 


UNDER THE SKIN 


saries and luxuries; and taking in return an equally 
valuable cargo of colonial produce,—corn, butter, pork, 
fur, skins and leather, but principally tobacco. 

The Nightbird now stood at Colonel Innisdale’s wharf. 
From its hold the seamen were unloading countless boxes 
and chests, while a never-ending stream of servants, 
white and black, were conveying these to the store¬ 
houses. 

Beatrice and her friend, standing on the little wooden 
pier, watched the proceedings interestedly. Several 
boats hung around; for it was customary in these days 
of uncertain shipping facilities for all neighboring 
planters to receive whatever small packages they could 
obtain from England by the first vessel consigned to 
any one of the plantations. 

A small boat came down the river, guided by a tall, 
dark Indian, and bearing a load of furs; while in its 
bow sat his son, a child of five or six. The Indians were 
then on friendly terms with the planters; and though 
Pennsylvania generally offered them a better market, 
they sometimes brought their goods into Virginia also, 
to exchange them for the articles which their white 
neighbors had taught them to use. 

The Indian tied his boat to the wharf, under the side 
of the ship, and sprang ashore. Colonel Innisdale had 
taken the captain and his chief officers up to the house; 
and it devolved upon Culberson, who was directing the 
work then proceeding, to barter with the red-skin. 

Culberson had before this openly averred his detesta¬ 
tion of Indians, and his opposition to trading with them. 
The red man knew, on the other hand, that lower down 
the river he was sure to obtain a better market for his 
commodities;—indeed, it was only his seeing the ship 
there that made him stop. 

At the same instant, Miss Innisdale and her com¬ 
panion approached the narrow gang-plank, with the 
evident intention of boarding the ship. Culberson, eager 


TWO SAVAGES 


85 


to win the young lady’s esteem, hastily sprang beside 
Beatrice, and, seizing her arm, led her up on the deck. 
It was at this unfortunate moment that the Indian 
accosted him with an offer of his wares. 

Culberson, completely ignoring the savage, returned 
to Miss Crawford, and assisted her, too, up the slippery 
way. The Indian, following aboard, once more repeated 
his offer. The overseer, himself a giant in strength, 
turned towards him with a snarl of rage, and before 
the Indian could sense his purpose, the white man lifted 
him bodily and threw him over the side of the ship. 

The Indian’s head struck heavily against the edge of 
his own boat, at which he had made a fruitless clutch, 
upsetting the craft, and throwing its contents into the 
water. A cloud of spray rose from the surface. When 
it cleared away, the man, partially stunned by the blow 
but instinctively a strong swimmer, was surrounded by 
bobbing bundles of fur and an overturned boat. 

A hoarse laugh greeted the Indian’s discomfiture; for 
the servants well knew that any show of sympathy would 
have roused the overseer’s wrath. At that instant the 
Indian uttered a cry which drew all eyes to him, and 
then, nearly a hundred feet down stream, where the 
strong current had borne it, a tiny hand, as if raised to 
heaven in one last mute appeal, sank out of sight. 

A score of hearts must have been touched by the 
imminent tragedy, yet, whether from fear of Culberson’s 
disapproval or from fear of ridicule, no one moved to 
offer aid; no one save- 

Fanny Morgan was still standing where her mistress 
had left her on going aboard the ship. She heard the 
Indian’s cry, she saw his child disappear, and she knew, 
superb swimmer though he was, he could not reach the 
spot before it was too late. From where she stood, the 
distance could hardly be less. She ran to the lower end 
of the pier, bounded horizontally through the air, and 
struck the water some fifteen feet away. Her scanty 



86 


UNDER THE SKIN 


dress impeded her little: she glided over the water as if 
it had been her natural element; and in a few seconds she 
had passed the spot where the child had disappeared. 
She peered searchingly down beneath her, then over her, 
too, the water closed. 

For a long minute she did not reappear: when at last 
the black mass rose to the surface, the child was clasped 
to her bosom. She shook the water from her head, passed 
her hand over the child’s face, pressed him nearer to her 
bosom, turned on her back, and swam to the bank. 

She lifted the child out of the water, and laid him 
on the grass. Miss Innisdale and Eleanor hastened to 
her side. The Indian joined them, and bent over his 
child, dripping and breathing hard. But his copper- 
hued countenance bore not a mark of emotion. Nor did 
Fanny Morgan’s. 

The child breathed. The girl turned away, and sprang 
into the water once more. She caught the three bundles 
of fur that bobbed about, and pushed them upon the 
bank. She returned to the spot where the child lay. 
His eyes were open now, and he breathed easily. She 
gazed down upon him for a moment, then, without a 
word, turned towards the pier. 

Nor did the Indian speak. But he fastened upon Her 
a gaze which she was never to forget. Do savage natures 
understand each other better than those more highly 
civilized? 

“It was a beautiful thing to do,” said Miss Crawford 
to her that evening. “Why, Fanny, you are an expert 
swimmer. You must give us lessons.” 

“I love the water, Miss Eleanor,” she answered simply. 
“I just naturally couldn’t resist the temptation to plunge 
in and have one more swim.” She turned away, as if 
to avoid further remarks on the subject. 

“ I ’ll say it was lucky for the Indian, ’ ’ Miss Crawford 
laughed. “However, Fanny has made a friend, and 


TWO SAVAGES 87 

Culberson an enemy. Did you observe the look he gave 
them both?” 

“I did,” Beatrice answered. ‘‘Culberson is a coarse, 
heartless villain. Do you know he has approached me, 
too?” 

‘ ‘ He dared ? The upstart! ’ ’ 

Beatrice nodded. 

“And it was from him I rescued this girl.” 

“You have told your father?” 

“I have not,” Beatrice replied slowly. “You know 
how hot-tempered my father is,—and—I can take care 
of myself. Besides, Culberson is efficient as an over¬ 
seer, and I do not wish to accept the responsibility for 
any change that might work less satisfactorily. But 
we’ll not talk of Culberson. Tell me what Ollie says.” 

Oliver Innisdale was Betty’s only brother, and 
Eleanor’s sweetheart. After a brilliant career at 
William and Mary, he was now in his last year at 
Oxford. He wrote whenever there was a boat for 
Virginia, and both girls had received letters from him 
that day. 

“I?” Eleanor disclaimed playfully. “Why, he didn’t 
tell me anything, except that you would give me all the 
news. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I see,” laughed Betty. “Your letter is entirely 
personal, while mine is intended to be public property. 
Well, my loving—I mean, lovesick—brother, after finish¬ 
ing your epistle, only found time to tell me that he had 
been hoping to be with us for Christmas, but hardly 
thinks it will be possible; and that he expects to be 

accompanied by a friend.” 

“Yes, Oliver mentioned him in my letter,” said 
Eleanor; “Major Pressley, a wonderful personage, and 
most likable, Ollie says. ’ ’ 

“Oh, Ollie is always gushing about his friends, dear. 
I do hope Major Pressley will tell us some of the beautiful 


88 


UNDER THE SKIN 


things he is now saying of a certain dainty little flower 
that he left in Virginia.” 

“I am hoping a great deal more than that,” Eleanor 
retorted. “I am hoping that he’ll teach you, in the only 
way in which a woman learns, not to taunt others for 
that womanliness to which you are too proud to submit. 
I am hoping that he will humble you at his feet.” 

Beatrice laughed uproariously. 

“No fear of that, dear,” she replied. “The flowers, 
the wood-lands, the blue ridges of lovely Virginia,— 
those are my only love, and nothing shall ever separate 
me from them.” 

“Wait,” said Eleanor enigmatically. “Before long 
you’ll sing another tune, unless the Greatest of Artists, 
when he made you the loveliest picture in all America, 
failed to endow you with a woman’s heart.” 


CHAPTER XY. 


AFTER THE RACES. 

The Englishman is essentially a sportsman, and 
wherever he has travelled, he has carried his sports 
with him. 

When Englishmen crossed three thousand miles of 
ocean, and founded a home and a country among the 
Virginian forests, one of the first things for which they 
hankered was the introduction of English pastimes; and 
as soon as prosperity was assured, British sports were 
rapidly introduced, often with embellishments suited to 
a new and growing country. 

Horse-racing was the contest dearest to the heart of 
the age, and as soon as the Virginian had completed his 
little wooden church and laid out his court-house, he 
started to design his race-track,—the third great institu¬ 
tion of the kingdom. As the tide of civilization drifted 
slowly westward, new country was opened up, new settle¬ 
ments were made, and new race-tracks designed. 

The newest of these was that of Colonel Innisdale. It 
had been laid out on a lovely plain some five miles from 
his residence, and the date of its opening was widely 
advertised. 

From early morning the miserable, rutty road that led 
to the track was crowded with pedestrians and horsemen, 
and by nine o ’clock the field was fairly crowded. 

The throng was thoroughly representative of the coun¬ 
try. The planters,—the aristocrats of the land,—were 
most conspicuous, for they were the owners of the horses, 
and the only participants in the chief event. But the 
poorer classes, too, were well in evidence, and for them 
several minor games had been arranged. And from the 

89 


90 


UNDER THE SKIN 


fringe of the crowd might even have been observed the 
broad grin of a free negro, who had come to see the 
favorite “hoss” of his beloved “marster” romp home to 
victory; for the law prohibiting freed negroes from 
remaining in Virginia was seldom, if ever, enforced. 

Colonel Matthew Innisdale, one of the wealthiest of 
the Virginian planters, a member of the House of 
Burgesses and a Justice of the Peace, walked slowly 
through the crowd, on one arm his daughter,—for the 
colonel was a widower,—his gold-laced, three-cornered 
hat of black beaver under his arm, and in his hand the 
inevitable gold-headed cane. As he bowed right and left 
to friends and acquaintances, his highly-scented white 
wig loosened a small shower of powder which soon formed 
a tiny white ridge on each shoulder. Yet the aristocracy 
of Virginia was entirely democratic, as the colonel’s 
running salutations proved. 

“Good morning, Colonel Harris; how’s your lady?— 
Why, Doctor Jones, I’m delighted to see you.—Morning, 
Jackson; I see you took the day off.—Mrs. Carter, 
madam, my heart is at your feet. You look as charming 
as ever.—Ah, Colonel Henry, what are the parsons saying 
over in Louisa?—Colonel Washington, I hear you have 
decided to run that filly of yours against-” 

The last individual, a stately military figure wearing 
a sword at his belt, lifted his hat, and, with the suave 
bow of a courtier, raised Betty’s proffered hand to 
his lips. 

“Why, Miss Innisdale,” he said, “I daily form a 
higher opinion of Lord Dunmore’s judgment. We are 
all getting dreadfully jealous of your father; he 
monopolizes your company so much.” 

Beatrice laughed pleasantly, and the speaker, thrust¬ 
ing his hand into that of the colonel, turned to answer 
his unfinished question. 

“Yes, Colonel Innisdale, I have entered my little mare 
for the race. I learnt that you intended to run your 



AFTER THE RACES 91 

Wildfire, and I thought it would only be a kind act to 
send along my Duchess of Richmond to show him the 
way home.” 

“You were misinformed, Colonel,” Beatrice inter¬ 
jected. “ Wildfire is my entry, and will lead the field. 
Ladies first, you know.” 

“True, Miss Innisdale, ” Washington laughed. 
“Duchess of Richmond is the lady in the case, and will 
surely be first. I’ll wager you a dozen pairs of French 
silk gloves against a bottle of the colonel’s burgundy 
to that.” 

“Thanks, Colonel,” Miss Innisdale replied. “I am 
really in need of some new gloves. I wear threes. You’ll 
send them to Innismount, won’t you?” 

“No,” answered Washington, “but I’ll call for the 
burgundy, and ask you to aid me in emptying the bottle. ’ ’ 

There was a sudden bustle of excitement, and, looking 
round, they saw that the governor’s coach was approach¬ 
ing. It was a heavy, cumbersome wagon, precariously 
high, drawn by four lovely bays. A committee of wel¬ 
come met the governor, and led him, red-faced and 
panting from the exertions of his long ride, over part of 
the field to the canopy that had been provided for him 
near the judges’ stand. 

“It’s a fine field, Colonel; a lovely site,” puffed 
Dunmore, “but, egad, why have it so far out of the 
world? And the road! phew! I could hear my ribs 
rattle every time we tumbled over a root or vaulted a 
chasm. Egad, Colonel, but I am dry.” 

The governor’s thirst was quenched from a silver 
flagon. The band,—violins, flutes and drums,—having 
at last finished the national anthem, struck up a lively 
dance, and the festivities started in full swing. 

The amusements provided for the common people were 
varied, and created laughter, cheers or hisses as the 
sympathies of the crowd swayed. A straight pole, thickly 
painted with grease, was set up to be climbed; and a fat 


92 


UNDER THE SKIN 


pig, similarly coated, was to be caught by the tail. There 
were bouts at wrestling and at quarter-staves, with 
dancing and foot-racing under varying conditions. 

Then followed the greater events of the day,—the con¬ 
tests between the best stables of Virginia; and sombre 
magistrates, dignified soldiers, and dainty ladies alike 
cheered themselves hoarse as their various favorites won 
undying fame. When at last the lowering sun warned 
the throng to disperse, all agreed that they had spent 
a wonderful day. 

Wildfire had won for his mistress Colonel Washing¬ 
ton’s gloves by half-a-neck, and Miss Innisdale was in 
high glee as she rode the champion out of the grounds, 
having changed from the quiet saddle-mare she had 
ridden that morning. Eleanor Crawford rode beside her, 
while their fathers and several of the best horsemen 
of the country followed close behind. 

The racer, now thoroughly warmed up, fidgeted and 
capered threateningly at the sound of hoofs around, but 
Beatrice was a superb horsewoman, and the antics of 
the excited horse only served to show off the graces of 
the rider. 

“Let him out,” suggested Miss Crawford, herself an 
excellent equestrienne mounted on a magnificent gray. 
“We’ll see who is who.” 

She brought her own whip down as she spoke, and the 
two horses leapt forward together. Those behind set 
spurs to their mounts, and the chase was on in real 
earnest, with the leading pair drawing steadily away 
from the rest, even though it was plain that Wildfire 
was being held in. 

It was a villainous road, with miry ruts, and out¬ 
grown roots, and rolling stones at every step; but there 
was not one there who had not previously negotiated a 
dozen worse. 

Wildfire tripped on a loose stone, losing a single instant 
while Miss Crawford forged ahead. Beatrice caught him 


AFTER THE RACES 


93 


up deftly, and at the same time playfully flicked his 
flank with her whip. He sprang forward, and passed 
the gray at a bound. It was a burst of speed in which 
the girl would have gloried, but ahead the road curved 
sharply, with thick woods on either side, and she knew 
that there were many persons in front. She tried to 
check his speed. 

Wildfire tossed his head, the bit between his teeth, and 
sprang forward with greater swiftness. She bent low, 
and jerked at the reins, hoping to dislodge his hold; 
with a snap the ribbons came loose in her hand, broken 
where they buckled to the bit. The break threw her 
far back on the rump of the horse; with almost super¬ 
human agility, she regained her seat. 

Wildfire darted forward with renewed vigor, now that 
the slight check on him had been removed. She knew 
he’d gallop home, half-a-mile distant; she had no power 
to stop him. She crouched low in the saddle, rising with 
his every rise, swaying with his every movement, as 
light and as immovable as a bird upon a quivering 
bough, and as graceful. 

The road curved. She bent low over the racer’s neck, 
stiffened her stirrup foot, and braced herself for the 
swerve. Like a flash of light they swept around, and 
then, a hundred yards ahead, the governor’s coach, heavy 
and unwieldy, lumbered down the narrow road! . 

She shrieked a warning, and held up the useless reins 
that they might understand. The driver saw. He 
whipped up his horses, and tried to turn aside. One 
wheel of the carriage mounted a ledge where a root lay 
bare; the other sank into a rut. The massive, top-heavy 
coach toppled over, precipitating its occupants into the 
dust, and completely blocking the way. 

Fifty, forty, thirty yards behind, thundered the 
maddened racer. No power could stop him now. 
Beatrice knew he would try to take the leap, and she 
knew, jumper though he was, he could not make it. Yet 


94 


UNDER THE SKIN 


she could do nothing. She braced herself for the spring, 
resolved to give him what aid she could. 

Twenty yards! She measured the distance with the 
eye of the experienced hurdler. She pressed her lips 
together, held her breath, and then- 

Out of the hedge that bordered the road, a dark, 
sinuous figure bounded. It might have been a panther 
striking at its prey, or a serpent hurtling itself through 
the air, but it was human. By some miraculous precision 
that could hardly be more than mere chance, the fingers 
found the rings of the bit. The racer rose in the air, 
came back to earth, snorted, tossed his head, sprang 
forward, and then sank back on its haunches overmas¬ 
tered, its nose against the upturned wheel of Lord Dun- 
more’s coach. At its head stood Fanny Morgan, one 
muscular hand in the horse’s bit, the other pressed 
against her mistress, steadying her in the saddle. Her 
naked foot had been cut by the flying hoofs, and her 
bare knee bruised, but her hold was unbreakable. 

Beatrice slid from the saddle, and hastened to the 
governor, who had risen to his feet and was brushing 
the dust from his clothing. 

“I trust you are not hurt, my lord,” she said. “I’m 
sorry-’ ’ 

“Tush, it is nothing,” his lordship answered. “But 
you, egad, it was a narrow shave. How did she-” 

Beatrice returned to where the slave-girl stood, and 
took Wildfire from her. 

“Go up to the house at once, Fanny,” she said. “Let 
Aunt ’Lizbeth attend to your wounds immediately, and 
put you to bed. I shall be there in a few minutes.” 

The rest of the party trailed in. Eleanor had wit¬ 
nessed the entire scene. Lord Dunmore related it to the 
others as the company walked slowly up to Colonel 
Innisdale’s mansion, where a sumptuous banquet awaited 
them. 





CHAPTER XVI. 


THE BREAK. 

The service Fanny Morgan had rendered to her 
mistress and to Lord Dunmore made her a privileged 
personage both among the negro servants and in the eyes 
of the white people on Colonel Innisdale’s estate. 

Generally she was in attendance upon Beatrice, who 
continued her long rambles in the woods, where she 
sometimes spent several hours in some sheltered nook 
on the fringes of the great forests, reading or knitting, or 
studying nature. The girl had been taught to knit and 
sew, and had found several opportunities to indulge her 
love for books, so that she generally shared in whatever 
her mistress did. 

On other occasions, she remained in the house, where, 
under the careful eyes of Aunt ’Lizbeth, or of Beatrice 
herself, she gave valuable aid in the kitchen, the laundry, 
or some other of the domestic departments of the great 
mansion. 

The girl’s rich musical voice had attracted the atten¬ 
tion of her mistress, and Beatrice had given her what 
aid she could in cultivating it. To this she had added 
the harp and the virginal, which she played with some 
degree of. skill, and the girl had showed remarkable 
aptitude in mastering these instruments. 

This close association drew the girl towards her young 
mistress with a strong attachment beneficial to both. 
They were of about the same age, and, despite their 
different conditions, their different trainings, and their 
different hopes for the future, there was between them 
a similarity of taste, thought and ideals which often 
bridged the gulf separating two alien races. 

95 


96 


UNDER THE SKIN 


Yet Beatrice could never fully comprehend this strange 
companion of hers. She was in all things a mass of con¬ 
tradictions. Young, vivacious and healthy, she was, 
nevertheless, quiet and uncommunicative almost to 
moroseness. That she was whole-heartedly grateful for 
the kindness of her mistress Beatrice never had any 
doubt, yet the girl openly resented any show of sympathy, 
and strove consistently to present her best actions in a 
less unselfish light. She soon became an interesting 
subject of study to her mistress, and daily new phases 
of her vari-colored character exhibited themselves. 

One morning Major Crawford’s butler arrived with a 
letter from Eleanor for Miss Innisdale. Fanny took it 
up to Betty’s sitting-room, and the girl, sinking into a 
couch, read with amusement. 

“My dear Betty,” Miss Crawford had written, “won’t 
you please help me out of a difficult situation? It is, 
I am sure, one which you can handle much more 
efficiently than I, perhaps because you have less experi¬ 
ence. Or haven’t you? 

“Briefly, dear, the position is this: Our Walter 
Hogslip has confided to me that he has been smitten by 
the charms ( charms, my dear!) of your Fanny Morgan, 
and that he would give the world, or such part of the 
world as is in his power to give, to make her Mrs. Hogslip. 
And he has besought me with tears,—real tears, dear,— 
to aid him in the matter, and to plead his cause— 
with you. 

“Honest, though, Bet, I pity the poor fellow, and am 
anxious to help him if it is possible. Of course, I know 
how highly you prize the girl, and am afraid you will 
be unwilling to part with her, but if that is the insur¬ 
mountable objection, perhaps it could be so arranged 
that she should not have to leave you. Your father and 
mine could discuss that detail. 

“Walter, I am sure, is the best of his race, and your 


THE BREAK 


97 


Fanny could never do better. As you know, he has been 
freed for services which certainly deserved freedom. 
Since then he has still worked for us, and has not changed 
a whit. He has saved fifteen pounds, and father has 
promised to let him have enough more to pay the full 
price of your Fanny if you’ll only say the word. You 
see, dear, we all have confidence in him. 

“I know you have a heart which loves, and which 
loves love, though you try to pretend you haven’t. And 
I am so sure you will pity poor Walter, that I have given 
him the day off. Can you give your Fanny an hour, 
so that they can arrange the matter between themselves ? 

‘ ‘That’s two in the family. Aren’t you getting 
jealous?” 

Beatrice folded the letter, and sat looking into the 
farther wall for five silent minutes, lost in thought. 
Then she summoned Fanny Morgan to her. For another 
minute she studied the girl intently before she spoke. 

“Is Major Crawford’s butler down-stairs?” she asked. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You know him well, don’t you?” 

“I have seen him several times, ma’am, and have 
spoken with him.” 

“Miss Eleanor speaks very highly of him,” said 
Beatrice. “I suppose you know that he is a free negro.” 

“Yes, ma’am; I’ve heard so.” 

“Well, he has a holiday to-day, and would like to 
roam around our place a bit. I am giving you the day 
off, so that you can show him around. ’ ’ 

“Thank you, Miss Betty. You are very kind.” 

“Miss Crawford seems to think as highly of Walter as 
I do of you, Fanny; and that’s a whole lot. ’ ’ 

There was a plaintive note of tenderness in the words, 
which the sharp ears of the slave-girl readily detected, 
—and misinterpreted. 

“I know it, Miss Betty,” she answered. “If I don’t 


98 UNDER THE SKIN 

show that I do, it is because I’m not made that way. 
But I’ll try.” 

Beatrice smiled kindly. 

“You may go, Fanny,’’ she said. ‘ 1 Have a happy day, 
—and you needn’t be in any hurry to return. Tell Aunt 
’Lizbeth to leave dinner for you both.” 

She stood at the open window, and watched the dusky 
pair saunter lazily across the lawn and out among the 
trees. She saw his shiny-black, amorous eye-balls 
apparently devouring the smaller, well-knit figure that 
meant his world: she saw the girl’s pearly teeth up¬ 
turned to her massive escort’s face, as if her lips drank 
in his words. She caught a ripple of laughter, swept 
through the trees on a stray flutter of wind. She knew 
that they were happy. 

Her gaze drifted past them. It swept the fields, the 
flowers, the wood-lands, and rested upon the distant 
ridges of hazy blue. These were her love—she had said. 
She breathed a sigh. But she was smiling. This?— 
or that? 

A rap at the door disturbed her reverie. She moved 
lightly across the room, and pulled the door open. 
Johnson Culberson stood without. 

‘ ‘ May I have a few words with you, Miss Innisdale ? ’ ’ 
Culberson asked. “I have waited a long time for an 
opportunity when you would be alone and not otherwise 
engaged, as what I have to say is for your ears alone.” 

Without replying, she held the door open for him to 
enter, then pointed to a chair. 

Dressed in his ‘ ‘ Sunday clothes, ’ ’ the overseer was by 
no means a repellent figure. His frock of black broad¬ 
cloth reached to his knees. He wore a scarlet silk waist¬ 
coat decorated with fine white lace, green satin doublet, 
blue silk stockings, and red morocco shoes. His long 
black hair was gathered into a single queue, tied with red 
ribbon and thickly powdered. Nearly six feet tall, wfith 
broad, square shoulders, he moved with the ease and 


THE BREAK 


99 


agility of a man long trained to military service. It was 
only his crafty, shifting, calculating, sea-green eyes, 
lurking a habitual scowl, that instinctively repelled those 
upon whom it cast its fitful glare. 

Culberson was the trusted overseer of Colonel Innis¬ 
dale’s plantation, and, in the free-and-easy hospitality 
of the Virginian gentleman of the age, was at liberty to 
roam through the “home house” with a freedom which 
would be appalling to the present age. Hence, his visit 
to the suite of the young mistress, though unexpected 
and unprecedented, was not surprising. 

Beatrice waited for him to speak, but he did not. 

“Well, I am alone/’ she said, “and, for the moment, 
disengaged. What is it?” 

“When one looks into your eyes, Miss Innisdale,” he 
said with an air of gallantry, “it becomes hard to say 
even the things that were uppermost in his mind.” 

“Ill turn my back, if that’ll help you,” Beatrice 
answered prosaically. 

“Be not unkind, Miss Innisdale. We pity rather than 
censure the owl for being blinded by the sunlight.” 

‘ ‘ I was never so unkind as to think of associating you 
with the owl,” she answered with a cold smile. 

“You have a biting wit, Miss Innisdale,” he said. 
‘ ‘ But, indeed, I knew that long before; and it is in atone¬ 
ment for some little lapses which have occasioned it in 
the past that I have come. I feel that on two or three 
occasions, my want of forethought, my crudity of manner, 
my haste of expression, or my strict obedience to your 
father has brought your displeasure; and I have spent 
several miserable days wondering how to make amends.” 

“If there were any such,” said Beatrice, “I have 

completely forgotten them.” 

“It is very kind of you to do so, Miss Innisdale, and 
I am eternally grateful. It does not excuse my own 
defects, but only accentuates your greatness of heart. 


100 


UNDER THE SKIN 


I assure you, Miss Innisdale, I have never had any 
thought but to win your good-will.’’ 

“Then we’ll call that matter settled,” said Beatrice. 
“Is there anything else?” 

“There is a lot more, Miss Innisdale,” he answered 
slowly, “but it is hard to say. Could I be sure of your 
sympathy-’ ’ 

He paused, like one who feels his way in utter 
darkness. 

“Say it,” she replied. 

Habitually kind-tempered, habitually sweet-toned, her 
words conveyed no hint of warning. 

“Miss Innisdale,” said Culberson, gathering courage, 
“I shall tell you what I have told no other in wide 
Virginia. My father was an English peer. My only 
brother, aged and childless, sits in the House of Lords.” 

She was intently watching the narrowed eyes that 
avoided her gaze. She made no answer. 

“Five years ago I came to Virginia. Yes, I’ll be frank 
with you. There were circumstances that made my 
coming necessary, and made me assume a name that is 
not mine; but they were purely family matters which 
time has effaced and left no blot on our name. 

“At first I resolved to become a Virginian planter; to 
purchase land and horses and slaves. Maturer thoughts 
decided me that this would be unwise. My stay in the 
colony could not be for long, and any effort in that 
direction would have been partially wasted. For a while 
I drifted about purposeless. 

“Then I saw you, by chance. You w T ere hardly more 
than a girl, and rode with your father to Williamsburg. 
That day I knew my destiny: it was to be a slave for 
life;—your slave. 

“I dogged your footsteps; I learnt your name; I 
sought an introduction to your father. I begged him for 
a position,—any position that would keep me near to 



THE BREAK 


101 


you. He needed an overseer for his plantation: I jumped 
at the offer. 

“I came to Innismount, feeling that it would be 
heaven;—and it was heaven, for you were near, and you 
were all I worshipped. I served your father faithfully, 
even as Jacob served Laban, hoping I might thereby 
merit the reward he won. You were ever cold and 
distant to me, which must be natural, considering that 
you looked upon me only as your father’s servant. Yet 
I hoped that time would soften your heart towards me. 

‘ ‘ But there is no more time to wait; the moment for 
action has come. I must return to my country, and to 
my people. Miss Innisdale, I have bared my soul to you. 
I throw myself at your feet. May I not take with me 
to England the loveliest flower Virginia blooms?” 

The impetuous flow of words had hushed the girl when 
she tried to stop its current. She realized now that she 
had permitted him to say too much. Yet she was hardly 
to blame. She lived in an age when ardent love-making 
was common-place, and only a mark of ‘ ‘ good breeding, ’ ’ 
—ardent love-making that meant nothing but fulsome 
flattery, and led nowhere. Besides, she was young and 
beautiful; and no girl who is young and beautiful can 
resent flattery, even from an unwelcome source. 

In her heart she detested Johnson Culberson; it was 
this detestation that had lessened her interest in his 
words, and had made her unsuspicious of the daring 
climax to which they would lead. Nevertheless, she had 
been bred a lady; though unused to violent love pro¬ 
posals, she was accustomed to gallantry, and had prac¬ 
tised the reply courteous. She hesitated for a moment, 
while she strove to extract the sting from her answer. 

“I am sorry, Mr. Culberson,” she said not unkindly, 
“that I allowed you to say so much. I am sure you 
will realize that what you ask is unreasonable and 
impossible. ’ ’ 

“Forgive me, Miss Innisdale, it can be neither,” he 


102 


UNDER THE SKIN 


answered. “If for a minute you’ll forget that I have 
been in the employ of your father, you can have nothing 
to which to object. If you doubt my parentage, I’ll tell 
you in confidence-” 

“Tell me nothing which does not and can never con¬ 
cern me,” she answered hastily. “Already you have 
told me more than I cared to know. I tell you it is 
impossible. ’ ’ 

“You are over hasty in deciding what may be your 
entire future, Miss Innisdale,” said Culberson. “Think 
it over for a few days, and let me plead my cause again. 
Not many a colonial maiden would so unceremoniously 
cast aside a duchess’ coronet.” 

She reddened, as from a slap in the face. 

11 True. And country girls who marry coronets seldom 
get real men with them. Enough, Culberson. This 
discussion is tiresome and unpleasant. It is in very bad 
form for you to continue it.” 

* ‘ I am sorry it must seem so, Miss Innisdale, ’ ’ Culber¬ 
son answered. “Yet, if you would consider the interest 
of your father as well as your own, the matter might 
appear in another light. It may be that your selfish 
persistence will eventually decide the fate of the one 
you hold dearest, and of what he holds dearest.” 

“My father? What do you mean, Culberson? I 
detest enigmas.” 

“My proposition, Miss Innisdale,” Culberson an¬ 
swered, “though prompted solely by my undying affec¬ 
tion for you, would also place your father in a position 
where his words would carry greater weight, and make 
him immune from any such charge as may be attributed 
to lesser men. The voice which accuses the common 
rabble would not dare to mention the name of a duchess ’ 
father. ’ ’ 

“To what charge would you refer, Culberson?” she 
asked. “I am not aware of any possible accusation 
from which my father desires to secure immunity.” 



THE BREAK 


103 


“That may be so, Miss Innisdale,” he replied, “yet 
innocent men have before now paid the supreme price 
for hasty or thoughtless words. The recent passage of 
the Treason Act in parliament jeopardizes the safety 
of every out-spoken colonist; and only those who have 
strong ties in the Upper House, where all cases of treason 
are eventually decided, may venture to express their 
opinions freely .’’ 

“Treason?” The storm in her bosom burst, and its 
lightning forked from her eyes. “What do you mean, 
Culberson, when you couple the name of my father with 
such a word?” 

The man fidgeted nervously. In his mad desire to 
intimidate her into an acceptance of his proposal, he 
now realized that he had gone a step too far; that, frail 
and pliant as she seemed, she was not the woman to 
be cowed. 

“It seems, Miss Innisdale,” he said, “that you are 
bent upon misunderstanding my most innocent and 
kindly-intentioned remarks. Mightn’t we drop the 
subject until you are in a more reasonable humor? I 
am sure you will then see that I am really considering 
only your own interest, and that my motives are pure 
and unselfish.” 

“I demand an explanation here and now,” she 
answered firmly. “Any implication upon my father’s 
honor must concern me first, and I shall accept no 
evasion nor equivocation. The stocks and the ducking- 
stool await malevolent calumniators.” 

His vicious, calculating eyes for a fleeting instant met 
hers, as she faced him with the gaze of the deified defied. 
Anger had but added a tinge of piquancy to her superb 
beauty,—an untouched rose, he felt, protected by a thou¬ 
sand thorns. A coronet might well have sat on that 
proud head, and acquired splendor from the contact: 
no crown in all England that matrimony had to give 


104 


UNDER THE SKIN 


could embellish her. He could not renounce the hope 
of success; duplicity yet might win. 

“Miss Innisdale,” he said in a feeble attempt at con¬ 
ciliation, “you are not at heart unjust, and, in spite 
of your unaccountable displeasure, I shall be plain with 
you. You know that the opposition to His Majesty’s 
laws in Massachusetts and Virginia has led the home 
government to decide to seize the leaders, and try them 
in London on charges of treason and sedition. While no 
accusation has yet been made against your father, you 
know that he is the most out-spoken of the Virginian 
leaders, and I have heard you yourself disagree with 
some of his radical statements.” 

“The fact that I might disagree with some of my 
father’s statements,” she replied, “does not make those 
statements wrong, still less does it constitute them 
treason. My father is an Englishman, more loyal to his 
king, to his country and to himself than you can ever 
be. The arguments which he uses, whether or not they 
be palatable to the throne, are the very arguments which 
Rockingham, Burke, Chatham, and the best Englishmen 
are using, yet none dare accuse them of treason.” 

“That is the very point I have been trying to make, 
Miss Innisdale,” Culberson answered hastily. “These 
men have power in the House of Lords, have influence 
among the aristocracy of England, and are, therefore, 
immune. I am asking you to put your father in the 
same position, thus giving him equal immunity, and his 
words greater weight. Besides, these men speak in the 
X>resence of their peers, and of the king himself; your 
father’s utterances are liable to be incorrectly repeated, 
perverted and misinterpreted.” 

“My father, sir,” she answered warmly, “expresses 
his sentiments in the presence of the Governor of 
Virginia, and of his peers of the Burgesses. If his words 
are to be perverted and misrepresented, it must be for 
selfish reasons by some slanderous and pusilanimous 


t 


THE BREAK 105 

eavesdropper like Johnson Culberson, and of such he 
has no fear.” 

Culberson rose from his seat. 

‘ ‘ It would be useless to discuss the matter farther, Miss 
Innisdale,” he said, “ since you attribute to my well- 
meant efforts motives so unworthy. At some other 
time-” 

“Wait, Culberson/’ she interrupted imperiously. 
“We must end this matter here and now.” 

She moved across to the door, and called down to 
Aunt ’Lizbeth. 

“I is cornin’, ma honey,” cooed the old housekeeper 
from the lower hall; “here I is.” 

“Send one of the boys to summon my father at once,” 
Beatrice ordered, “and send Alec up to me.” 

In another minute, Uncle Alec, a gray-headed negro 
who was the house-keeper’s husband, stood smiling at 
the door. 

“Remain there, Alec,” she ordered. “We are await¬ 
ing my father.” 

Culberson glanced cynically at the aged door-keeper. 

“I assure you, Miss Innisdale,” he said, “I have no 
intention to escape; but since you thought a guard 
necessary, you might at least have obtained one who 
could be of use. That old relic is only an ornament.” 

She did not answer. It was ten minutes before Colonel 
Innisdale, panting from his unaccustomed haste, ascended 
the stairs to his daughter’s room. 

“Father,” said Betty in a voice which, though re¬ 
markably cool, was strained from ill-concealed emotion, 
“that man has insulted me with an offer of marriage, 
and when I refused-” 

“ ’Sdeath!” roared the colonel, a man just at heart, 
but ever hasty and hot-tempered, so that he was always 
reversing himself, “have you forgotten your position, 
Culberson? You are a servant here, sir; a servant: 
remember that. ’ ’ 




106 


UNDER THE SKIN 


“He intimated/’ Beatrice continued, “that unless you 
purchased his friendship and protection by offering in 
exchange the hand of your daughter, you are liable to a, 
charge of treason.” 

“The devil he did,” cried Innisdale. “The man who 
would impute treason to Matthew Innisdale must back 
up his words with his sword. Culberson, I demand an 
apology.” 

Culberson turned towards his employer with a graceful 
bow. 

“I must regret, Colonel Innisdale,” he answered, 
“that I have said nothing for which I can apologize. To 
ask your daughter’s hand in honorable marriage is the 
privilege of any Englishman who is better born than 
herself. As for this talk of treason, I shall not belie 
the lady, but I consider myself as much at liberty to 
express my thoughts concerning you, as you are to ex¬ 
press yours about your king. If this is not satisfactory, 
you will have no difficulty in finding me. ’ ’ 

* ‘ Then by heaven-’ ’ 

“Not so, father,” said Beatrice, laying a restraining 
hand on her father’s arm. “Culberson is entirely 
beneath your notice: the only chastisement to which he 
is entitled is that generally accorded your other 
servants.” She turned majestically to the other. 
“Johnson Culberson, you are dismissed. Within an hour 
you will leave this plantation. If you are ever seen on 
it after that, I shall have my slaves horsewhip you from 
the grounds. You may go.” 



CHAPTER XVII. 


a girl’s problems. 

Beatrice looked up with a tired smile as the laughing 
face of Fanny Morgan peered into the room. 

Her interview with Culberson, sufficiently unpleasant 
in itself, had come upon the heels of other thoughts 
hardly less embarrassing, and left her unusually morose 
and broody. 

For Culberson’s charge against her father, she well 
knew there was ample excuse, even though the count 
of treason could not be sustained. She, too, had often 
expressed her disapproval of the radicalism with which 
her father, Colonel Henry, and a few of the more out¬ 
spoken of their friends assailed the Crown. She knew 
that it was her father’s wealth and influence which still 
kept the governor attached to him. She saw that Dun- 
more knew Innisdale would be of invaluable aid to 
whichever side he gave his support when the inevitable 
split came, and that the wily Scotsman was striving with 
might and main to win the colonel into supporting the 
Crown. Should Dunmore be convinced there was no 
chance of winning Innisdale, then the next best thing 
he could do to weaken his antagonists would be, by some 
means, to get the powerful colonel out of the way. And 
she reasoned that if Culberson was as big a figure as he 
pretended to be, which, however, she doubted, he would 
now probably lay his facts before the governor. Yet she 
also knew that any action Lord Dunmore might 
take against her father would be the signal for that 
revolt which the governor was, not without manifest 
skill, still keeping underground. 

The proposal of Culberson was another matter. She 

107 


108 


UNDER THE SKIN 


could hardly believe the man was in love with her. Was 
it her beauty that he wanted to buoy him into English 
society,—for she knew that she was beautiful,—or was it’ 
her father’s wealth, to make him foremost in Virginia? 
His love-making was crude and insincere: she was inex¬ 
perienced, but she could detect that much. And the 
man knew, as well as she did, that their spirits antago¬ 
nized each other. Was it merely an excuse he sought for 
denouncing her father? 

It was while she debated this question that the advent 
of her maid awakened her to other matters. She looked 
into the face of the girl, and saw happiness there; saw 
gratitude and love and pride in features that had never 
before expressed anything. 

How much happier was their simple life! Here was 
no intrigue, no scheming, no baser motives. They just 
loved, that was all; there was nothing to gain except 
each other. 

She smiled up encouragingly. 

“Why, Fanny, you’re back. I see you look happy.” 

“Yes, Miss Betty; and I am happy,” the girl answered 
guilelessly. “It is the most wonderful day I have had 
since—oh, years and years.” 

“I am glad to hear it, Fanny. What made it such 
a wonderful day?” 

“I don’t know, Miss Betty. Perhaps it was because 
you were so kind to me. That started making the day 
happy for me, and it just kept on. Everybody was kind 
to me to-day. Walter and I had such a lovely time in 
the woods. Aunt ’Lizbeth gave us the best dinner she 
ever cooked; and Uncle Alec he just hung around with 
such jokes I nearly burst my sides a-laughing.” 

“You like Walter?” 

“I certainly do, Miss Betty. He is one of the best 
men I ever met; and he loves flowers and trees and birds 
and running water just as I do. He promised to see 
me again if it is at all possible.” 


A GIRL’S PROBLEM 109 

“To see you again, Fanny? Aren’t you going to 
marry him?” 

“No ma’am. He asked me to, but I soon got it out 
of his head, and now we’re just going to be friends." 
That’s so much nicer.” 

How silly of you, Fanny,” Beatrice exclaimed in 
surprise. “Why did you refuse him? You certainly 
can’t expect to do better.” 

“I’m not trying to do better, Miss Betty,” she 
answered. “I’m not going to marry.’’ 

“Silly girl.” Beatrice uttered the words without 
reproof. It was the falsehood most often on her own 
lips,—though she didn’t know it was false. “Do you 
love another?” 

For a moment she was silent, and in that moment her 
entire manner changed. When she spoke, it was in a 
sober, unmodulated tone, barely audible. 

“Yes, ma’am, I love another. But I shall not marry 
him either.” 

“Aha,” laughed Beatrice, *“so that’s it. Come, tell 
me all about it, Fanny.” 

A large tear-drop glistened in the girl’s eye. She 
sank on her knees beside the couch on which her mistress 
sat. 

“Please, please, Miss Betty,” she stammered, “you 
have been very kind to me, and I’d do most anything 
to show how grateful I am, but please don’t ask me 
about that.” 

It was a queer picture they presented: Beatrice, lithe 
and graceful, robed in a magnificent house-dress of blue 
silk, hoopless, but lined with buckram, her long black 
hair, secured with a single silver comb, falling heavily 
on the couch beside her; the girl, muscular but not 
massive, crouched at her feet, her form clothed in her 
newest close-fitting, one-piece dress of striped gingham, 
her feet and arms bare, and her thick hair, as black and 


no 


UNDER THE SKIN 


nearly as long as that of her mistress, falling in two 
massive plaits over her shoulders. 

“Ah, I know/’ cried Betty, with instinctive girlish¬ 
ness scenting a romance. “It was the person who gave 
you the book. ’ ’ 

* ‘ He ? ’’ she queried deprecatingly. 1 ‘ Why should you 
think so, Miss Betty?” 

“Because/’ answered Beatrice, “you refused to dis¬ 
close his name to my father, and would have been 
punished in his place. You must have loved him, or 
you wouldn’t have done that.” 

She laughed aloud mockingly,—this strange creature 
who could veer from tears to laughter at a single thought. 

“Isn’t it queer, Miss Betty,” she said, “that you who 
can read books, and trees, and flowers, and even the 
stars, cannot read people? Yet I have read you well 
enough to know that, in the same position, you would 
have done exactly what I did.” 

“I don’t know,” Beatrice answered meditatively. “I 
should have to love some one very dearly indeed before 
I’d take thirty lashes which were due to him.” 

“You are unjust to yourself, Miss Betty. If you loved 
some one very dearly, you wouldn’t mind being under an 
obligation to him; but if you disliked him, and wished 
to be rid of him, you certainly wouldn’t want to owe 
him anything, should you ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, that’s right,” Beatrice answered. 

“Well,” Fanny continued, “the person who gave me 
the book was one of your father’s slaves. Ever since 
I came here, I have been sick of his love-making. When 
he gave me the volume, I believed that he had found it, 
as he told me, and I knew he had no use for it; he would 
have thrown it away, while to me it was invaluable, and 
I knew of no means by which I could obtain one. 

“ If I had allowed him to be punished for it, he would 
have been proud to suffer for what he did for me, and 
would have had a right to expect some yielding on my 


A GIRL’S PROBLEM 


111 


part in atonement. I should have been under an obliga¬ 
tion to him, which he would never forget. But when I 
accepted the punishment, he would have to admit that 
he brought me into trouble, and could not expect me to 
care for him after that. As a matter of fact, I have 
forbidden him ever to speak to me again, and I can see 
that that is a greater punishment than any lashes Master 
Culberson could have given. 5 ’ 

“You reason queerly, Fanny, but you are probably 
right,” Miss Innisdale admitted. “By the way, Culber¬ 
son has left us. ’ ’ 

“Left, ma’am? Why?” 

“I dismissed him, Fanny. Perhaps it was for a 
reason similar to that you have just given me. You see, 
we are not so very different after all.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


SURPRISED. 

It was a glorious afternoon in the late summer. The 
sun was slanting over the western woodlands, and a 
gentle breeze rustled through the leafy boughs, scatter¬ 
ing abroad the rich fragrance of jasmine, rose and lily. 

Beatrice lounged easily on a vine-clad bench in the 
shade of a large hickory a hundred feet from the house. 
In her hand she held a tiny volume of Cowper’s poems. 
It was a gift, recently received from her brother at 
Oxford, and she was eagerly devouring the beautiful 
lines. 

Suddenly the sound of rapid hoof-beats attracted her 
attention. She glanced up from her book, and, at the 
farther end of the long lane that led up to the house, 
saw a rider approach at full gallop. In another instant 
her sharp eyes detected the free, swinging gait of Quebec, 
the gray mare that Eleanor had loved to ride, and then 
she distinguished the rider as Major Crawford himself. 
She hastened to the door to greet him,—ever a welcome 
visitor in a land where all were always welcome. 

“Why, Major Crawford,’’ she exclaimed, proffering 
her hand as the rider sprang from his saddle with the 
agility of a boy and relinquished his mount to Uncle 
Alec who led her away, “you ride like a knight-errant 
to his tryst. You haven’t brought us bad news, I hope.” 

“If you were the other half of the tryst,” answered 
Crawford with the gallantry of the age, gently raising 
the lady’s hand to his lips, “no true knight ought to 
spare horse-flesh in his efforts to hasten it. I bring 
news, dear, but it is not bad news.” He turned towards 
her father, who had hurried out at the sound of his 

112 


SURPRISED 


113 


friend’s voice. “His Excellency has summoned a special 
meeting of the Council for noon to-morrow, Innisdale, 
and has requested me to notify you. It’s a long story, 
and, by George, I have not been so dry since that night 
back in ’fifty-nine when we clambered up the Heights 
of Abraham after Wolfe.” 

Colonel Innisdale took his friend by the arm and led 
him into the house. Fanny Morgan filled the ever- 
ready silver flagons with sparkling French wine, and it 
was not till the major had emptied his second that Innis¬ 
dale reverted to the business on which he had been 
summoned. 

“What is it this time?” he asked coolly. “Still the 
Boston trouble?” 

“No,” Crawford answered, “something nearer to us. 
It seems as if we are in for some trouble with the red¬ 
skins, though, so far as I can find out, the Indians really 
have the better of the argument.” 

“But the Indians,” Innisdale interrupted, “have been 
docile and friendly for several years.” 

“Just so,” Crawford admitted. “The report, as it 
reached me, is not quite consistent, and is somewhat 
confusing. As nearly as I can make it out, however, it 
appears that some report reached Colonel Norton, the 
governor’s lieutenant out in the west, that the Mingos 
were preparing for a rising of some sort. Norton 
promptly sent a warning to the settlers in that neighbor¬ 
hood. Whether or not the message was correctly 
delivered is uncertain, but, upon its receipt, a company 
of these westerners banded themselves together, attacked 
a tribe of friendly Iroquois, and perpetrated upon them, 
—men, women and children,—outrages which must 
forever disgrace the name of England to these people. 
The Indians have, quite naturally, risen in retaliation; 
the various tribes are combining; frontier settlements 
have already been burnt, and their inhabitants 


114 


UNDER THE SKIN 


slaughtered: unless something is done at once, no one 
knows what will happen.” 

Innisdale remained silent, as if in deep thought. 

“Crawford,” he said at length, “we know each other. 
Together we have fought the French and the Indians, 
together we climbed the great western mountains; we 
may be plain with each other. The trouble in Massa¬ 
chusetts has assumed alarming proportions, and the sister 
colonies, but especially Virginia, are in thorough 
sympathy. There is even a fear in some quarters that 
the colonies might eventually combine in open defiance 
of the imperial government. What effect would an 
Indian War have upon such a project?” 

Crawford did not answer the question. 

“I had the same thought at the outset,” he said. 
“Lord Dunmore is whole-heartedly loyal to his king. 
He is far-seeing, and a tactician. Nevertheless, he is a 
man of honor, and an Englishman. It is hard to conceive 
of such a man descending to so contemptible a ruse with 
such an end in view\” 

“The governor may be innocent of any such inten¬ 
tion,” Innisdale conceded, “though many kings have 
preserved their crowns at greater cost than the lives of 
a few unoffending red-skins. But even so, there are 
fawners and flunkeys around his lordship whose interests 
might be equally served by any such conflict. Colonel 
Norton’s message might easily have been changed by 
any insignificant underling with just such a motive.” 

‘ ‘ True, ’ ’ Crawford admitted. 4 4 That is quite possible, 
and the Council must sift the thing to the bottom. At 
least, we must make to the Indians what amends are 
possible; we cannot estrange them at this time. But 
who do you think headed the band that made the attack 
on them ? ’ ’ 

“I give it up,” Innisdale answered. “All our pioneer 
Indian fighters are men of caution and sense. Some 
fool, evidently.” 


SURPRISED 115 

“Fool is right,” snapped Crawford. “It was no other 
than our old friend Johnson Culberson.” 

“Culberson?” gasped the colonel. “Ye gods; how 
did he get mixed up in this ? I thought he was returning 
to England to claim some heritage which was his. ’ ’ 

“All bosh, Innisdale,” Crawford replied. “I do not 
believe he can again set foot in England; and certainly 
he is no gentleman.” 

“Well,” said Innisdale, “there is no time to lose: with 
Culberson on the job, there is sure to be a lot of mischief 
done. The Council must act at once and firmly. You 
will excuse me while I make some preparations for the 
journey. We start for Williamsburg immediately after 
supper. There is a bright moon, and the ride wfill be 
cooler than by day, so we can make better time. ’ ’ 

While the colonel busied himself arranging for his 
departure, Beatrice entertained the visitor, refilling his 
flagon, amusing him with chatter and gossip, and, at his 
request, adding a song, which she herself accompanied 
on the harp. 

Then came the call for supper and shortly after, the 
two members of the Governor’s Council departed on the 
long ride to Williamsburg. 

Next day, Beatrice, accompanied by the faithful 
Fanny Morgan, went for one of her long rambles in the 
woods. The girl was passionately fond of nature and 
solitude, and the pair covered several miles, through 
hedges and thickets and brush, over rocks and moss and 
grassland, along river-banks, and skirting marshes. 

Some time after noon they arrived at a large oak tree 
in a dense forest. It was a favorite resort of the girl’s, 
and, though less than two miles from the residence, the 
woods had, at her request, been kept in almost its virgin 
state. Birds and squirrels hopped about the trees; a 
small stream gurgled in the rear, trickling over a tiny 
cataract with a rhythmic soporific cadence: through an 


116 


UNDER THE SKIN 


opening in the boughs, the river glinted back the sun¬ 
light three hundred yards away. 

Beatrice sank on an improvised couch at the foot of 
the tree. 

‘ ‘ Fanny, ’ ’ she said, ‘ ‘ I am going to finish my Cowper. 
Go to the house, and see if the boy who went to Williams¬ 
burg has returned. If there are any letters, bring them 
here to me.” 

The girl darted off, scaring a rabbit in her path. 
Frequently she had sat with her mistress in this same 
retreat; frequently she had left her there on various 
errands to the house. She thought little of the matter, 
except to hurry along. 

Beatrice opened the book. She read page after page 
of absorbing verse. She lost all sense of time, of place, 
of being; swept away on the wings of fancy by the poet’s 
magic pen. No sound disturbed, no fear assailed her. 
The romance of poetry had won her heart. 

A noiseless hand fell on her arm. She looked up, 
strangely unafraid, as if it were some vision conjured 
up out of the poet’s mysterious imagery. Suddenly her 
senses woke. Two Indians stood beside her, their faces 
ogrishly smeared with paint. In their hands were rifles, 
and evil-looking knives. They seized her roughly, as two 
other Indians emerged from the thicket. 

“Who are you?” she demanded, “and what do you 
want ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Hush; not a sound, ’ ’ commanded one of the Indians 
in the broken guttural that served for communication 
with the pale-face. “We knew you came here often, and 
for two days we watched for you. Your man has taken 
our women, and has killed them, or ill-treated them. We 
take you to our people that they may have their revenge.” 

“My friend,” Beatrice answered, “you are mistaken. 
My father has never injured one of your people, and is 
your best friend.” 

The Indian did not reply. With a sharp jerk, he 


SURPRISED 


117 


brought her hands together. She uttered a single pierc¬ 
ing cry for help: a firm hand covered her mouth, and 
held her rigid. She fought and tore and struggled: 
she was helpless as a babe in a strong man’s arms. They 
bound her arms and legs with leather thongs, they 
gagged her that she could not speak, then stretched her, 
panting and breathless, upon the grass. 

“You are his squaw,” said one of the men. “I have 
often seen you together. You shall go with me, and 
shall fill the place of my Flower-that-blooms-every- 
morning, whom he tore from my bosom and crushed to 
earth, trampling the spirit from her eyes.” 

She was powerless to call for help, to deny the charge, 
to tell them that she did not even understand what they 
were talking about. Two of the men lifted her, and 
moved off through the forest at a rapid pace. One went 
before as guide, while the fourth guarded the rear, 
carefully covering the trail as they went. 

They avoided the river and made for the Pennsyl¬ 
vania mountains, wisely inferring that when the pursuit 
started it would follow the course of the stream. The 
weight of the girl was insignificant to husky warriors 
trained to flight and endurance; and when the first halt 
was called, they had covered some twenty miles of wild 
Virginian forests. 


i 


CHAPTER XIX. 


DOGGED PURSUIT. 

Fanny Morgan reached the house. The messenger 
from Williamsburg had brought a letter for Miss Innis- 
dale. The girl took it, and started on her return, 
tripping as light-heartedly as she had come. 

She was almost in the shade of the oak tree beneath 
which she had left her mistress, when the sound of 
voices arrested her,—low, strange voices in an unknown 
language. 

Cautiously she drew nearer, and peered through the 
branches. Four Indians, clad in skins and feathers, wfith 
war paint on their faces and guns in their hands, stood 
before her. Even as she looked about for her mistress, 
hoping she had found safety in timely flight, two of the 
men lifted from the ground a limp figure, bound and 
helpless. A sudden impulse urged her to rush forward 
and save her mistress or die beside her; her natural 
caution told her the sacrifice would be useless,—that alone 
she could not overpower four armed savages. 

The party moved off. She noted the direction, then 
turned and fled,—fled like the wild antelope in the 
jungles of her homeland when the panther was at its 
heels. Something told her it was cowardly to be leaving 
her mistress in this her hour of sharpest need; and the 
savage breast hates nothing more than cowardice. Yet 
it was in the interest of her mistress that she went: 
at Innismount help lay, whose succor would be sure. 
Even though the master was away, she knew that in 
half-an-hour a strong posse would be in pursuit. If the 
wary Indians did not elude them;—that was the point. 
She had heard a lot about the Indians; she knew that 

118 


DOGGED PURSUIT 


119 


they were adepts at covering their tracks, and she knew 
that every second lost on a blind trail added to Miss 
Betty’s danger. 

A single breathless burst of speed took her over a third 
of the distance. A figure moved before her,—a stealthy 
figure that evaded the open, and crept behind the bushes 
at her approach. She hailed him imperatively. 

At her third call, the figure emerged from its hiding- 
place. She recognized him as one of the master’s slaves; 
a recent purchase, and somewhat of an incorrigible. 

“Aw wha’ you hollerin’ s’much ’bout, you Fanny 
Morgan?” he answered gruffly. “Ah ain’t deef.” 

The girl disregarded the man’s surliness. 

“Listen, Pompey,” she said. “Fly to the house,— 
fly for all you’re worth,—and tell them that Indians 
have taken Miss Betty and carried her off. There are 
four men, armed with guns and long knives. They seized 
her under the big oak tree in the White Owl Glade, and 
made off into the woods to the right. I am going to 
follow them, and leave a track which the rescuers cannot 
miss. Run for your life, Pompey. The safety of the 
mistress depends wholly on you. Make good, and your 
service will not be forgotten.” 

“Sho’ Ah is gwine run lak de debble arter me,” 
Pompey growled, and plunged down into the open at 
a pace which gratified the girl. She turned once more 
in the direction of her unfortunate mistress; and now 
she had new vigor, born from the certainty that in a 
couple of hours at most the Indians should be overtaken 
and her beloved mistress saved. 

She reached the spot of the seizure; her sharp eye 
picked up the trail so carefully hidden by the captors, 
and she plunged into the denser forest. She moved with 
greater caution now, but hardly less swiftly. Here and 
there she plucked a small branch from a tree and tossed 
it in the path, to convince her rescuers that they were 
on the right track. 


120 


UNDER THE SKIN 


In half-an-liour she saw the party three hundred yards 
ahead. They covered the more open spaces at a level, 
lolling trot; through the denser woods they moved at a 
brisk walk. She maintained the distance, drawing nearer 
in the deeper forests, falling back again as the woods 
thinned. 

The rear-guard must have sensed a presence. He 
stopped, peered into the forest around, and retraced his 
steps a hundred yards, his gun levelled, his eyes and 
ears alert. Fifty yards farther Fanny Morgan stood. 
Not a limb moved; not a muscle quivered: she almost 
ceased to breathe. A single movement must have 
betrayed her presence; yet into her blood and nerves and 
muscles had been born an instinct as primitive, as 
resolute and as true as that of the red man. 

The Indian turned again after his companions; the 
girl breathed once more,—and followed. The adventure 
had taught her to be more careful; she was soon to learn 
that it was but the usual manifestation of Indian 
cautiousness. 

Her steps were as soundless as the Indians’, her eyes 
and ears as keen, her purpose a thousand times more 
resolute. Long before this she had expected the rescuers 
to be upon them, but still she looked and listened in 
vain. No sound had come from Beatrice, but the girl 
could see that she was alive, and probably unhurt. What 
her abductors proposed to do with her, Fanny could not 
even vaguely guess, but she made up her mind that at 
the first sign of any attack upon her mistress, she would 
spring to her aid, and die fighting beside her. Over and 
over she told herself that she would never return to 
Innismount with word of Miss Betty’s fate; that 
wherever Beatrice Innisdale died, or suffered, there 
Fanny Morgan should assuredly die. 

The sun reddened over the western hills. The shade 
of the trees lengthened and lengthened, and then lost 
shape. The shadows mingled into one all-enveloping 


DOGGED PURSUIT 


121 


gloom. A screech owl vented a querulous demand; a 
mountain wolf howled back an insolent denial. A round, 
white moon crawled out of the eastern fringe of forest 
blackness; a scraggy, dark-gray cloud woke up in the dim 
north-west, scurried across to her, flirted with her for 
a moment, then took her all to himself. A blinding flash 
parted the black heavens, the hills rattled and the pine- 
trees trembled. 

And still no rescuers came. Could they have lost 
the trail? That was the only possibility; though she 
had made it as plain as she dared. She looked up at the 
blackened sky, and shivered. It was going to rain, 
probably heavily; and the rain would obliterate the 
tracks she had left. She grew more daring, marking her 
course in a manner she hoped would out-live any storm. 

The Indians changed their course, making for the hills 
at a more rapid pace. She guessed the reason: their 
forest-trained instinct foretold the storm; they would 
seek shelter. She followed closer, fearing to lose them 
in the darkness and stumble upon them when they halted. 

The rain came down,—large pelting drops like hail¬ 
stones. The Indians reached a large overhanging cliff, 
and deposited their burden in its shelter. They squatted 
beside it, out of the storm, their sharp eyes fixed upon 
the dark fringe that approached their retreat, their guns 
pointed outwards. 

Slowly she crept through the thicket till she was within 
fifty feet of them. Still she could not distinguish their 
forms, except in the frequent flashes of lightning. But 
it was not safe to go nearer. She crouched there, sure 
that they could not evade her. 

The rain drove down upon her in fierce torrents. 
There was no shelter from which she could watch the 
cave, and she would not have gone out of sight of it 
to save her life. She shook the water from her face, drew 
her clinging rags closer around her, and prepared for 
a tireless vigil. 


122 


UNDER THE SKIN 


They had probably covered twenty miles. She had 
counted on a posse from Innismount overtaking them in 
six. She knew that her master was away at Williams¬ 
burg, also Major Crawford, their nearest neighbor, whose 
home was only ten miles from the Colonel’s. But there 
were scores of white men on the plantation, and more 
than two hundred negroes, almost any one of whom would 
have given his life for Miss Betty. Wilson, the new 
overseer, or Rockwell, the blacksmith, or any one of a 
dozen others, could readily organize a rescue party in 
the master’s absence. 

She had seen Pompey hasten away towards Innis¬ 
mount; he could have taken but a few minutes to get 
there. She wondered to whom he had delivered her 
message. Probably to Aunt ’Lizbeth; and the dear old 
mammy would not have lost a minute to hurry on the 
rescuers. No, there was but one explanation: in some 
unaccountable manner they had missed her track. The 
storm would make it still harder for them to recover it, 
yet, that they would she felt sure. It was for her to 
make their task easier. 

The storm at length abated. A swift wind came up 
from the north-west, shaking the heavy drops from the 
branches, and sending the last lingering clouds hurrying 
eastwards. The moon beamed forth again, sloping 
towards the west. Midnight was past. She strained her 
ears for some sound of her pursuers, but her eyes were 
on the little group huddled beneath the cliff. She could 
see them plainly now, though her mistress was hidden 
from view. 

She expected them to move at any minute, and kept 
herself prepared for any emergency. Still they waited. 
Two men guarded the front, the others, shadowy in the 
background, were probably asleep. She felt cramped and 
restless, but she feared to stir. So the long vigil 
continued. 

The Indians shook their companions, and pointed to 


DOGGED PURSUIT 


123 


the eastern sky, slowly reddening. They once more 
lifted their burden, and moved off in single file. 

Their egress led within a dozen feet of her. She 
crouched lower into the bushes, and held her breath. A 
struggling moonbeam gave her a fleeting glance of her 
mistress’ face, pallid but resolute. The gag had been 
removed, but her hands and feet were still bound. She 
wished she could give her a single word of cheer; a single 
signal that her plight was known, and that her friends 
were close behind. But she desisted, for she knew that 
any indiscretion now might mean the lives of both. 
Once more she silently dogged their steps. 

The day dawned slowly. A round, yellow sun topped 
the green eastern forest. She dropped farther behind, 
except in the densest woods, leaving foot-prints no 
rescuer could miss. 

Their course sloped slowly downwards now. They 
crossed a narrow, rocky stream, and kept near its 
northern bank. She paused and swallowed a few hasty 
gulps of the sparkling water, then darted after them. 

Shortly after noon, the company rested on the bank 
of a broad river, near where it was joined by the stream 
they had followed. They lay on the grass, still keeping a 
sharp look-out, and passed some food around. She 
remembered that she had not eaten for more than twenty- 
four hours. She plucked a handful of ripe, juicy black¬ 
berries from a bush beside her, and crunched them slowly 
in her mouth. 

Rested, the men arose. Prom some concealment that 
she had not sensed, they pulled forth a boat. Miss Innis- 
dale was lifted into it, her captors followed, two of the 
men seized the oars, and the tiny craft, frail and 
apparently overloaded, glided out into the stream. 

Fanny Morgan watched with bulging eyes. Her lips 
trembled, and her breath hissed. Then she clasped her 
hands, glanced up at the unclouded sun, and a single 
unintelligible moan burst from her heart. 


CHAPTER XX. 


LOST. 

Pompey had never been reconciled to servitude. 
Perhaps this was his misfortune rather than his fault. 
During the ten years since he had been separated from 
his dear African wilds, he had served a dozen different 
masters. His massive, stocky frame, his tough, faultless 
muscles and his rugged, robust constitution readily 
obtained him a purchaser whenever he was placed on the 
market; while his reckless incorrigibility, his stolid in¬ 
difference to punishment, and his stubborn mulishness 
under all circumstances, always made his latest master 
eager to place him on the market at the first opportunity. 

Naturally, Pompey and the whipping-post were old and 
frequent associates, and, naturally, too, he was always 
kept under the strictest surveillance. On the plantation 
of Colonel Innisdale, the negro, for the first time, found 
himself treated with an amount of leniency almost to 
laxity; for the colonel treated his slaves humanely in 
his own interest as well as in theirs. And Pompey 
resolved that this laxity should be to his advantage. 

Wilson, who had succeeded Culberson as overseer, sent 
the negro from one of the fields to another soon after 
lunch. Pompey knew that for at least two hours his 
movements would be free from supervision, and he 
promised himself that those two hours should put fifteen 
good miles between him and the plantation. He was not 
unaware of the severe penalties provided for run-away 
slaves, but he also knew that a few days’ rapid travel 
northwards would assure him safety, protection, and 
means of concealment. He decided that the risk was 
worth taking. 


124 


LOST 


125 


Pompey had covered but a short distance of his pro¬ 
posed flight, when he saw Fanny Morgan apparently in 
hot pursuit. He crept into the bushes, in an attempt 
to evade his captor. The girl’s calls, however, made him 
apprehensive of a new turn to the affair: others might 
hear her shouts and join her, making his position still 
more dangerous. He reappeared from his concealment, 
determined to silence her for ever. 

Fanny Morgan gave her message breathlessly, un¬ 
suspicious of the man’s real purpose. He heard, and his 
heart laughed in glee, though his surly visage masked 
his delight. Freedom had at last come to Pompey. The 
search for the young mistress would draw all attention 
from him, and the longer that quest lasted, the better 
chance he had. 

He darted off rapidly, in seeming obedience to her 
command, but, no sooner than he was beyond her view, 
he once more changed his course, making for the north, 
—and freedom. 

It was nearly four hours later before Pompey was 
missed. The colonel was away, Miss Innisdale had not 
yet returned from her rambles, and Wilson, aware of 
his responsibility, hurried every available man to scour 
the woods in search of the fugitive. Late into the night 
the searchers dropped in one by one, each reporting 
failure. Pompey had escaped. 

Meanwhile, Aunt ’Lizbeth was getting anxious that 
Miss Betty and Fanny Morgan had not returned. Her 
uneasiness grew as the night continued. She could find 
no explanation, no precedent for their strange non- 
appearance. The girls often went for long walks, and 
were sometimes late, but never to such an extent. Alec 
advanced the possibility that Miss Betty might have 
walked in the direction of Miss Crawford’s home, and, 
finding herself nearer to it than to her own, continued 
there, to return on horse-back later. This explanation, 


126 


UNDER THE SKIN 


unsatisfactory to both, nevertheless kept up their hearts 
as they sat listening into the night for hoof-beats. 

Then the rain came on,—a steady downpour, though 
nothing to compare with the thunder-storm in the hills. 
That convinced them that if Miss Innisdale had not yet 
left her friend’s home, she would probably spend the 
night there, and either return or send a messenger early 
in the morning. So they slept, warm though uneasy, in 
the old home, while their mistress lay bound in a moun¬ 
tain cavern and Fanny Morgan crouched beneath the 
dripping pines. 

Next morning a bearer was dispatched to Major Craw¬ 
ford’s place. In a little more than an hour he returned. 
Beside him rode Eleanor, florid, and panting, prepared 
to direct the search for her friend. 

Soon everything but the search for Miss Betty was 
forgotten on the entire plantation. Three hundred 
slaves, and a hundred white men and women, led by Miss 
Crawford and Aunt ’Lizbeth, roamed the woods, the 
swamps, the river-banks. How both mistress and maid 
could so completely have disappeared was beyond con¬ 
jecture. Could some treacherous bog have swallowed 
them up? Could some tragedy of the river have taken 
them both to the bottom? Could they have met with 
some unaccountable accident in the forest? 

Before noon, the searchers realized the hopelessness 
of their task. The night’s rain had washed aw T ay what¬ 
ever trace of their movements there might have been. 
A rider was hurriedly dispatched to Williamsburg for 
the master. 

In the early hours of the following morning Colonel 
Innisdale galloped into the yard. He was accompanied 
by Major Crawford and a score of their friends, wealthy 
planters from the country through which they passed. 
The colonel and his party had from the first surmised 
the truth, for they knew that the Indians were on the 
war-path, and that no form of revenge was beyond them. 


LOST 


127 


And as Culberson had not been unknown to them, it was 
quite natural that they should carry their vengeance to 
the people among whom he had been seen by many of 
their tribe. 

Yet even the colonel was out-witted by the wily red¬ 
skins. The natural road to the Indian country led up 
the river which the kidnappers had so laboriously 
avoided. While four boat-loads of armed men rowed 
feverishly up this stream, Beatrice Innisdale, with three 
days ’ start, was being hurried by her captors up another 
unfrequented river that zig-zagged on the farther side 
of the blue hills which circumscribed their horizon. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


THROUGH THE HILLS. 

The river upon which the Indians launched their boat 
wound a tortuous course up a narrow glen, densely 
wooded, but not impassably rocky. For a moment Fanny 
Morgan gazed on, helpless at this new turn of events. 

In another minute she had made up her mind. She 
could not desert her mistress even now. There must be 
some way to keep the boat in sight. The rescuers could 
not be far behind; she must be able to point them the 
way. 

She plunged madly forward through the thickets that 
fringed the river. The few strips of clothing that still 
clung to her were almost wholly carried away; her body, 
face and limbs were cut and bleeding by thorns and 
jagged rocks. She gave them hardly a thought. Her 
eyes were fixed on the tiny boat that slowly but steadily 
widened the distance between them; her mind was filled 
with the absorbing problem how much longer she could 
continue the reckless chase. 

A tributary stream crossed her path. She plunged 
in boldly, and swam to the other side. The water seemed 
to refresh her: she darted into the woods with renewed 
vigor. 

The windings of the river gave her some aid: she was 
soon able to cut off several sharp curves which the boat 
was compelled to make. The storm of the preceding 
evening helped her more: the river was still somewhat 
swollen, and the rowers made poor progress against 
the tide. 

From every bit of rising ground she cast a wistful 
glance behind, but no sign of pursuers rewarded her. 
Again and again she assured herself that they were close 

128 


129 


THROUGH THE HILLS 

behind her now, that she would not have to keep up her 
pursuit much longer; then she rushed forward with 
hope reborn. 

If human beings knew their future, how many would 
keep up the one-sided struggle that ends with the grave ? 
If Fanny Morgan had known that the help she expected 
was far away, and going in an opposite direction,—that 
it would never, never reach her nor her mistress,—how 
long could she have battled against the almost insur¬ 
mountable odds that confronted her? 

The sun sank behind the western hills. She hurried 
nearer to the boat, lest she should lose it in the darkness. 
She knew that there was little fear of her being dis¬ 
covered, even by daylight, so long as the men remained 
in the boat. She wondered that she was able to follow 
them so successfully. 

There was a bright moon, and the night was cooler than 
the day. She found the going easier,—for she had ceased 
remembering thorns and wounds. Besides, she soon 
noticed that in the denser woods the undergrowth was 
generally sparse. Sometimes it was possible to follow at 
the water’s edge; sometimes she cut through the woods, 
emerging on the farther side of a curve ahead of the 
boat. At other times the curves went against her, but 
she hastened around, and soon regained what she had 
lost. 

At length the boat stopped beside a high, rocky bank. 
The men sprang out, lifted out Miss Innisdale, and 
pulled up the craft. They squatted in the shelter of a 
high rock, and Fanny Morgan sank to the ground a 
short distance away, glad for the respite. 

Apparently, as on the previous night, two of the men 
went immediately to sleep, while the other two remained 
on guard. She felt tired and sleepy, but she dared not 
venture to close her eyes, for she could not guess how 
long they might remain, and she would not take a chance 
on their escaping her. 


130 


UNDER THE SKIN 


She was hungry, too, she remembered. For nearly 
two days she had not eaten, save for a handful of berries. 
She had passed through several other clumps of berries, 
and had seen plenty of nuts, but she did not think of 
hunger at the time. She consoled herself that to-morrow 
she could secure an ample supply,—if help did not reach 
her before. 

All night she sat there watching, tired but untiring. 
With early dawn the Indians arose, re-entered their boat, 
and were off. Once more she followed, footsore and 
hardly refreshed, but never desponding. 

It was another day like that preceding. The country 
grew more rocky and the river more crooked as she 
journeyed westward, but by tearing her way through 
thickets, clambering over ledges, fording or swimming 
streams, and by exertions of which she never thought 
herself capable, she all day kept the boat in sight. From 
time to time she gathered a handful of nuts or berries, 
and cracked or crunched them as she hastened along. 

The party once more rested for the night, and again 
she sank to earth almost worn out. Fairly certain that 
they would remain till early morning, as they had done 
on the two former nights, she snatched a brief repose in 
the early hours of the halt; but it was in short, fitful 
naps, half-awake, with senses alert. When the moon 
showed her that the night was more than half gone, she 
abandoned even this, preparing for the start. 

The fourth and fifth days brought no change,—and 
no rescuers. The country was steadily getting wilder. 
Jutting cliffs and massive boulders rose everywhere, 
while the narrowing river rumbled along a crooked, 
rock-strewn gorge that made rowing almost as slow as 
walking. 

They passed in the distance a tiny hamlet that looked 
like an Indian settlement, but the red-skins had not 
paused. She began to feel that their destination could 
not be much farther. 


THROUGH THE HILLS 


131 


The sixth day broke with a strong north wind, and a 
light, cold drizzle. Her almost unclad figure shivered in 
the gusts, and she tried to avoid the more exposed 
cliffs. Her strength was all but gone, her hope was 
ebbing fast, but her resolute courage was as strong as 
when she started. She would follow Miss Betty to the 
end of the world, and die fighting beside her. 

There was a sudden excitement on board the boat. It 
seemed to her that the wind had dashed it against a 
jutting rock, and stove a hole in its side. The men were 
rowing feverishly towards the bank, and she could see 
that the boat was slowly sinking. They reached the 
land, and dragged the white woman ashore, then pulled 
up the sinking craft after them. They squatted around 
it, and carefully examined the damage. Apparently it 
was beyond repair. They turned aw r ay, and spoke 
together eagerly for several minutes. 

Two of the men moved off through the woods in the 
direction from which they had come. She guessed they 
w T ere gone to seek aid,—probably another boat in the 
village near which they had passed on the preceding 
evening; for in the present state of the country, it would 
be almost impossible to carry their prisoner by any other 
means. 

The other two Indians remained to guard the captive, 
who lay on the ground ten feet beyond them in the 
shelter of a large rock. At first they spoke eagerly 
together, but soon their conversation flagged, then died 
away. They stood some twenty feet apart, on either 
side of their charge. Their gaze was on the river, the 
one up, the other down. Their hands were resting on 
their guns, but their thoughts were far away. So, for 
ten minutes, they stood, immovable as wooden sentinels, 
sure that their task was unnecessary. 

Fanny Morgan had crept within a hundred feet of 
the nearest. She picked up a smooth white stone, roughly 
cylindrical, nearly a foot long and perhaps two inches 


132 


UNDER THE SKIN 


in diameter. She clutched it in her hand, and glided 
silently forward from boulder to boulder, agife as a 
lizard, noiseless as an eel. 

“The sleeping Indian,” says the proverb, “hears the 
dead leaf fall.” These Indians were wide awake. It 
was broad daylight, though the drizzle had increased, 
and the wind was whistling through the trees in deafen¬ 
ing gusts. Dared she hope to catch them napping? 

Yet she was the daughter of a race whose fathers had 
hunted the lion and the antelope with naked clubs,— 
and come upon them unawares! Was it too much to 
hope that into her blood and muscles had been born a 
step as soundless as the Indian’s, a heart as resolute, a 
nerve as true? 

She could not hear her own foot-falls; she listened 
for her heart, and could not hear it beat: there was 
not enough of her clothing left to rustle, or to impede the 
free movement of her limbs. Inch by inch she crept 
along. 

She reached the boulder by which the Indian stood. 
His immobile eyes still rested on the river; his paint- 
smeared face did not betray his dreams. 

Six feet behind him Fanny Morgan came. Her breath 
was hushed: her bosom neither rose nor fell. There was 
no sign of movement about her, save only that she moved. 

She did not pounce at him. Confident of her own 
stealth, of her absolute absence of sound, she crept nearer 
still. 

Then, like a flash of light, her arm went, and the 
heavy cudgel crashed into the Indian’s head. 

She did not wait for him to drop. Seconds were 
priceless centuries now. Almost with the fall of her 
club, she grasped the gun from his hand, turned it in 
the direction of the other, and pulled the trigger. 

Fanny Morgan knew little of fire-arms. Years ago, 
in that long-forgotten past, she had been taught to shoot. 
Since then, she had aimed a gun in sport, but had never 


THROUGH THE HILLS 


133 


fired one. Yet luck was with her. The weapon went 
off with a roar that shook the hills, and the other Indian 
toppled across a rock. 

Beatrice sprang up at the sudden report. The sight 
of Fanny Morgan seemed but an apparition out of her 
troubled dreams. Before she could voice a question, the 
girl sprang beside her, and seized her arm. 

“Come, Miss Betty,” she cried. “We must run for 
it. The others will hear the report and follow. We 
must evade them.” 

“Who is with you?” gasped Beatrice. “Where is my 
father ?’ ’ 

“Follow me,” she answered with a confidence she 
could hardly feel; “I shall take you to him.” 

She darted towards the river; and Beatrice, weak and 
wasted by six days of torture, sprang after her. She 
turned her course up the stream, keeping in the water 
whenever possible. Beatrice followed swiftly, making a 
desperate call upon that untried store of vitality which 
training, youth and heredity had kept in reserve. 

Bun for itf With three hundred miles of Indian- 
infested wilderness between her and safety? 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE RETURN. 

“Can you keep it up, my mistress?” Fanny Morgan 
asked in a brief pause as the pair clambered over a rock.. 

‘ ‘ I am keeping up, Fanny,’ ’ Miss Innisdale answered, 
“though I don’t know how much longer I can. But tell 
me how you came here, and why you are alone. ’ ’ 

“In a minute, Miss Betty. Let’s get a little farther 
from them before we stop. If the other two Indians 
heard the gun, they will return and make a determined 
search for us. I am hoping they will either proceed down 
the river, knowing we ought to go that way, or else pick 
up the trail by which I came. That’s why I keep going 
away from home. ’ ’ 

They struggled on in silence for a while longer. Then, 
feeling that they had baffled pursuit, they turned north, 
and walked perhaps a mile into the forest. They reached 
a thickly wooded hill that provided a fair view of the 
approaches, and sank down under the trees. 

“We ought to be safe here,” said the girl. “It is a 
long way to go, and we must save ourselves all we can. ’ ’ 

“Surely you are not alone, Fanny,” Beatrice persisted. 
‘ * Where are the others ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t know, ma’am. They must have lost the 
trail, though, goodness knows, I made it as plain as I 
dared.” 

“But how did you find it?” Beatrice demanded. 

11 1 followed you all the way, Miss Betty. ’ ’ 

“Followed me? Mercy, child, I was brought here in 
a boat.” 

“I know,” the girl answered. “I ran through the 
woods, and kept the boat in sight all the time. I was 

134 


THE RETURN 


135 


just returning to the White Owl Glade when I saw the 
men moving off with you. I found one of the negroes in 
the woods, and sent him to Innismount with a message 
that you had been taken. Then I followed you, to mark 
a trail which I hoped they could not miss. It is likely 
they are on my tracks, and near behind, but we cannot 
venture to return that way, for the Indians are sure to 
find and follow it.” 

Beatrice knew the girl too well to express commenda¬ 
tion of her devotion. 

“I am glad you were able to follow me,” she said. 
“It means that we shall be able to return on foot as 
you came. How long is it since I was taken?” 

“Six days, ma’am. But the return will be longer, for 
we must keep well away from the river, and we could 
not maintain the speed I was forced to make. ’ ’ 

“True, Fanny,” Miss Innisdale admitted. “Yet we 
have both been considered good walkers. We shall do 
our best, though you must be nearly worn out.” 

“I’ll keep up with you, Miss Betty,” Fanny assured 
her. “But you are thin and pale. Did you have any¬ 
thing to eat?” 

“I tasted some of their dried meat and com bread 
once or twice, I believe,” Betty replied. “But I feel 
fresh and strong, now that I have seen you.” 

“I had lots of nuts and berries,” said Fanny. “We’ll 
be able to gather them as we go. But why did they 
want to take you away, Miss Betty?” 

“I don’t know, dear. One of them said something 
about revenge for what our people did to their women, 
but all the time they spoke in their own language, so 
that I couldn’t tell what they were saying. It must be 
some private raid. The Indians have been friendly with 
us for years.” 

“Major Crawford was telling your father,” said 
Fanny, ‘ ‘ that they had risen in the northwest. ’ ’ 


136 


UNDER THE SKIN 


“So father told me. That’s why the council was 
summoned.” 

“The rising,” Fanny continued, “was caused by the 
cruelty of Master Culberson and a company of men 
he led.” 

“Culberson? Are you sure, Fanny? My father did 
not mention him.” 

“That’s what Major Crawford said, ma’am,” Fanny 
replied. “I was in there pouring their wine all the 
time.” 

‘ ‘ Culberson, eh ? That would explain it, Fanny. One 
of the Indians looked like someone I had seen before. 
It is possible that he had been about Innismount, had 
seen Culberson there, and had associated him with us. 
But I am completely rested; can’t we start now ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, ma’am. We must keep to the hills, yet within 
view of the river, so as to get our direction from it; 
though I suppose if we keep in that general direction 
long enough,”—she pointed vaguely to the southeast,— 
“we shall at length reach some part of Virginia.” 

They once more started on the long march that should 
take them back to home and friends. With the con¬ 
tagious optimism of youth, Beatrice, now that she was 
freed from her copper-hued abductors, regarded the 
adventure as a girlish lark. They moved as swiftly as 
the forest permitted, with the subdued chatter and occa¬ 
sional laughter of their accustomed walks. 

They kept a sharp lookout, but there was no sign of 
pursuit. A long, narrow valley on their right marked 
the course of the river. This they steadily avoided, often 
changing their course to keep farther from the region 
in which they expected the redskins to search. 

Shortly after noon they rested for lunch. The forest 
afforded a profusion of berries; nuts were plentiful, and 
water in abundance. They both ate heartily, then once 
more started off. 

The way was wild and rocky. Gaping chasms and in- 


THE RETURN 


137 


accessible cliffs barred their path, causing long detours, 
and, often a loss of direction, till a glimpse of the long, 
distant hollow where the river flowed once more assured 
them. Thorns and brambles impeded their course, and 
their progress was painfully slow, even though they 
hurried as fast as they dared. But they kept up their 
courage, and cheered each other along. 

Night came early in the hills. They found shelter 
in a protected gorge, and threw themselves on the ground. 
They ate another meal of what the woods afforded, 
hastily gathered as they walked, and their chatter was 
light-hearted and commonplace. 

Fortunately, ladies of the period were more profusely 
dressed than necessity demanded. From her own supply, 
Beatrice was able to replace the scanty raiment of her 
maid, destroyed in her hasty rush through the woods. 
Then, in that true democracy which only peril breeds, 
the two girls huddled closely together, and, worn out 
by the exertions of a week, slept soundly through the 
night. 

It was early morning when they awoke. A spring 
that bubbled near supplied a refreshing drink and the 
means of an imperfect toilet. With deft fingers, aided 
by a small piece of stick, Fanny Morgan untangled 
Betty’s mass of matted hair, restoring it to a semblance 
of order; then performed the same service to her own. 
Once more they resumed the homeward march, invigo¬ 
rated by their first night of complete rest, resolved to 
breakfast as they journeyed, whenever the forest pro¬ 
vided the means. 

They felt that the redskins would widen their search 
as their quest proceeded, and they steadily kept farther 
from the river. It was laborious climbing at first, but 
before noon they reached a comparatively level tract, 
apparently on the top of the mountain. Along this the 
going was easier, and they made better progress. There 


138 


UNDER THE SKIN 


was nowhere any sign of humanity, and they felt confi¬ 
dent that they had evaded their pursuers. 

They spent their second night out under the shelter 
of the trees, and once more slept comfortably. They woke 
in the early dawn, and again took up their course. They 
were moving swiftly now, and sure of reaching some part 
of inhabited Virginia within a few days. They had lost 
sight of the river-course from the preceding morning, 
but felt fairly certain of their general direction. 

The morning brightened, the sky assumed a yellow 
tint, and then the sun, a dazzling mass of burning gold, 
edged over the distant forest—on their right! 

Fanny Morgan gazed around the horizon in astonish¬ 
ment. 

“Why, we’re lost,” she exclaimed. “We are going 
the wrong way.” 

“The wrong way? How?” Beatrice turned en¬ 
quiringly. 

‘ ‘ That is the east, where the sun comes from, ’ ’ the girl 
answered. “Therefore, we are going to the north. Vir¬ 
ginia lies to the southeast.” 

“The southeast? Are you sure, Fanny?” 

“Yes, ma’am. I followed you all the way on foot, and 
noted the direction as we came. The Indians travelled 
towards the northwest, except on the first day, when they 
went almost due north.” 

“Then we must turn back,” Beatrice answered calmly. 
‘ ‘ I wonder how long we have been going in this 
direction ? ’ ’ 

“I am fairly certain that up to last night we were 
right, ’ ’ Fanny replied. ‘ ‘ Probably we started wrong this 
morning. ’ ’ 

“If so,” answered Miss Innisdale, “we have lost less 
than three hours. Yet we are on the very edge of the 
mountain. We have to go down this side, which is steep 
and rugged. It will be very slow.” 

They turned to face the sun, leaving it half-way on 


THE RETURN 


139 

their left. The mountainside was rougher than any they 
had encountered in the past two days. They picked 
their way slowly along, clambering over rocks, skirting 
chasms, sliding down steep inclines, making long detours 
where their way was impenetrably barred. They pro¬ 
ceeded in single file, sometimes Fanny and sometimes her 
mistress leading the way as either discovered an opening 
that promised better progress. 

They were half-way down the rocky hillside when 
Beatrice pointed to a narrow river that flowed along a 
gorge across their path. 

“That is not the river up which you came,” said 
Fanny. “It probably joins it lower down. I crossed 
several such streams in coming. But if we could reach 
it, we might find its course easier to follow. ’ ’ 

“We’ll try,” said Beatrice, and led the way. 

The stream was banked by giant cliffs, through which 
it seemed to cleave its way. For more than an hour the 
girls crept along the rocks, searching vainly for an open¬ 
ing through which they might descend to the narrow 
strip of beach at the water’s edge. 

At length they found it,—a narrow, precipitous gully, 
clogged with boulders and enough debris to show that in 
the rainy seasons it carried a torrent to the stream below. 
It was dry now, and a sure-footed mountain goat might 
have found footing down its course. 

Ahead, the sheer cliffs rose impassable; up the dry 
watercourse, only a bird could fly. Either they must 
descend the gully, or else retrace their steps, undoing 
nearly two hours’ hazardous progress. 

“We must go down,” said Beatrice. “There is no 
other way. To retrace our steps w T ere hardly less 
dangerous. ’ ’ 

“It is very steep, Miss Betty,” Fanny answered, “but 
we can make it if we are careful. Better let me go 
before.” 

“What difference would it make?” Beatrice asked. 


140 


UNDER THE SKIN 


“If one must fall, better both. Your life is as valuable 
to me as mine; I could not get out of this without you. 
Come, and be careful.” 

Slowly they crept down the dry ravine, clinging to 
roots and boulders and whatever came in their way. 
Sometimes, stretched at full length over some ledge, they 
would hang on with their hands while their feet felt 
for a resting-place below. At times, unable to find even 
this, they would once more drag themselves up, carefully 
measure the distance beneath, hang over again, and drop 
into some niche in the rocks. So, slowly, the perilous 
descent was made. 

Fanny Morgan had distinctly the advantage, her un¬ 
shod toes holding into the crevices with the facility of a 
monkey’s. Yet the white woman as truly vindicated the 
daring of her race. 

They were but a dozen feet from the bottom. Beatrice 
hung over a ledge, felt for a landing-place with her feet, 
and dropped to it. The stone on which she sank, prob¬ 
ably loosened by the recent rains, toppled over. She 
caught at a sappling; it came uprooted in her hand. 
Enveloped in a cloud *of dust, both the rock and Miss 
Innisdale crashed to the bottom of the water-course. 

Their fall loosened the other rocks, and removed what 
other ledges there might have been. Perched on the cliff 
twelve feet above, Fanny Morgan uttered a sharp cry 
as she saw the tragedy. She glanced at the huddled mass 
below, glanced at the jutting rocks around, then hurtled 
herself desperately through the air, and landed asprawl 
a yard away from her mistress. 

She was on her feet in an instant. Fortunately the 
rock had not fallen on Beatrice. Fanny dragged her out 
of the debris, and brushed the dust from her face. 

“Are you hurt, Miss Betty?” she questioned eagerly. 
“Speak to me. ’Tis Fanny.” 

Beatrice uttered an unintelligible groan, and her hand 
grasped her leg above the knee. 


THE RETURN 


141 


Fanny Morgan’s hand ran swiftly over the spot her 
mistress had indicated. She looked anxiously up into 
Miss Betty’s face, already haggard with pain, and a 
single involuntary tear fell upon her hand. 

Miss Innisdale’s leg was broken. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


DAYS OF LONG AGO. 

‘‘Don’t be discouraged, Miss Betty; I’ll get you out 
of this.” 

Her voice was husky, and lacked its usual enthusiasm, 
but her eyes flashed with the glint of determination. 

Could Fanny Morgan feel the confidence she tried to 
instil? She hardly knew where she was; around her 
was an untrod forest of mountain ash and towering pine' 
and jagged rocks, with, for all she knew, hostile Indians 
in the background. How far from home she was she 
had no idea;—certainly not within a week of brisk walk¬ 
ing. Her mistress was stretched out with a broken leg: 
she probably would be unable to move for a month at 
least; the journey before them she could not hope to at¬ 
tack for several months. 

She dipped what was left of her dress into cold w T ater, 
and gently bathed the injured leg of her mistress; then 
carefully she pulled and patted the leg till she felt sure 
the fractured bone-ends were in their place. She broke 
two bits of dry stick, and wound around them ribbon¬ 
like strips torn from Miss Innisdale’s clothing. She tore 
several other long strips, placed her improvised splints 
on both sides of the fractured leg, and bandaged the 
whole carefully. Beatrice gritted her teeth, and the color 
came and went in her face, but she uttered never a groan, 
nor a word, till the girl had completed her ministrations. 

“This is terrible,” she gasped then. “What are we 
going to do ? ” 

“I shall do whatever is possible, Miss Betty,” the girl 
answered. “You can do nothing now, so don’t worry 
yourself. Just lie still, and try to get well. Above all, 

142 


143 


DAYS OF LONG AGO 

don’t attempt to move your leg; it will only get worse if 
you do. I’m going to take a look around; I’ll be back in 
a few minutes. Then we’ll try to decide on something.” 

She started briskly down the stream. It was nearly 
half-an-hour when she returned. 

“How’s your leg?” she enquired tenderly. 

“It hurts terribly,” Beatrice answered. “My bones 
seem to be on fire.” 

“I know,” she replied. “But it will soon ease you. 
Say, I’ve found the cosiest little nook for you, half-way 
down the river. We’ll go there now, before your leg 
ceases to hurt.” 

“I hope it isn’t far,” said Beatrice with a sigh of 
resignation. “I don’t feel as if I could walk a step.” 

“Walk?” gasped the girl, “who’s going to let you 
walk? I shall carry you there.” 

“You, Fanny? You can’t manage that, dear. I’m as 
heavy as you are. ’ ’ 

“Can’t I? We’ll see.” She knelt before her mistress 
as she spoke. “You place your arms around my neck, 
so. Now, hang on firmly, but don’t try to help yourself 
otherwise, and leave your leg entirely to me.” 

She thrust her hands under her mistress’ body, the 
one bearing almost its entire weight, the other barely 
steadying the leg, and lifted her gently. She shuffled 
slowly along over rocks and creepers, now in the water 
and now on dry earth, as steadily as if she carried a 
basket of eggs. Fifty yards from the starting-point, she 
paused in a level space. 

“I am going to rest you here a minute,” she said. 
“Come down, easy.” 

She deposited her burden on the pebbly ground, then 
sank down beside her, a smile of satisfaction in her eyes. 

“I didn’t jar you that trip, did I?” she enquired. 

“You didn’t, dear,” Miss Innisdale answered. “But 
I am too heavy for you. Have we much further to go ? ” 

“Not so very far,” the girl replied, “and I’ll get you 


144 


UNDER THE SKIN 


there all right. I could have carried you farther now, but 
I didn’t want to get tired and stumble with you. I’m 
rested now; we’ll go for another trip.” 

Again she covered about the same distance, and again 
rested. The perspiration was oozing from her face, and 
she was panting hard, but the light of success was in her 
eyes. 

“I did not think it would be so easy to carry you,” 
she laughed. “You are not very heavy.” 

“Fanny, you are a wonderful girl,” said Beatrice. 
“If we ever get back to Innismount, I shall try to show 
you what I think of you.” 

“Please don’t talk that way, Miss Betty,” the girl 
answered sadly. “I shall never have an opportunity of 
showing you what I think of you. Come, we’ll make 
another start.” 

Five other trips like these brought them to their desti¬ 
nation. It was a small, low cave almost at the edge of 
the water, fairly well lighted, and commanding a view 
of the river to the next curve, a hundred yards away. 
Within, the girl had, on her former visit, prepared a 
couch of moss, grass and twigs. Upon this she gently 
laid her mistress. 

“This is where we are going to live for the present,” 
she said cheerfully. “I found two other caves, but this 
is the best. Now, I’m going to get some berries for sup¬ 
per. Then we can decide what to do.” 

In a short while she returned with an ample supply, 
which she spread before her mistress. Beatrice ate a 
handful, but she was too troubled to enjoy them. 

“You have been very thoughtful, Fanny,” she said. 
“But what are we going to do after this? We surely 
can’t remain here for ever feeding upon nuts and 
berries.” 

“No, Miss Betty,” Fanny replied. “We must plan 
something to do next. I was only arranging for the 


DAYS OF LONG AGO 145 

present; for the rest, you must decide, or both of us to¬ 
gether.’ ’ 

‘ i I can think of nothing, ’ ’ Beatrice answered, ‘ 1 and my 
poor head aches with thinking. We might live in this 
place for a hundred years, and no one chance upon it, 
unless it be an Indian. It will be months before I shall 
be able to move; perhaps never, for unless I get some 
attendance my leg is not likely to heal of itself. If I 
send you on to Innismount for help, you could not get 
there in less than a week or ten days, unless you went by 
the way you came, and on that the Indians would be 
likely to capture you. But even if you reached home 
safely, it would be some two weeks before help could 
reach me; and, left alone in these hills, with wolves, 
and bears, and Indians, and a broken leg, I could not 
hope to last that long.” 

“Why, Miss Betty,” cried the girl, “how unlike your¬ 
self you talk! Three days ago, when you lay on the 
rocks, with tw T o armed Indians on guard on either side, 
you were, I think, in greater danger. Yet help reached 
you there. Now no enemy is in sight and your most de¬ 
voted attendant is beside you, yet you would despair. 
Does your leg still hurt awfully ? ’ ’ 

“Terribly, dear; and it makes me cross even with 
you.” 

“Iam glad to hear it, ’ ’ the girl answered, desperately 
optimistic. “I’ve heard that when a fracture is knitting 
rapidly the pain is intense. It will soon be over now. 
Come, lay your head upon my lap and try to sleep.” 

She sank on the couch, and, lifting Miss Innisdale’s 
head into her lap, gently soothed her forehead. But 
Beatrice was in no mood for sleep, and in the wild silence 
of the hills, her fears augmented themselves. 

“Fanny,” she said after a long pause, “when I die, 
you must continue back to Innismount and tell 
them ’ ’ 

“Don’t, Miss Betty,” the girl interrupted. “You are 



146 


UNDER THE SKIN 


not going to die. I’ll attend to you till you are well 
enough, and then I’ll find some means-” 

“Nonsense, child. I’m not afraid to die, and I have 
made up my mind that it is the only way to end all this. ” 

“If you’d only try to sleep, Miss Betty,” Fanny 
chided, “the pain in your leg would soon cease, and when 
you wake up you’d be yourself again.” 

‘ ‘ I have tried, dear, but I cannot sleep, ’ ’ she answered 
wearily. ‘ ‘ Why should this trial,—these sorrows,—come 
to me ? ’ ’ 

“Have you ever tried to think, Miss Betty, how much 
worse off you might have been?” 

“Worse, dear? How could I be worse off than I am 
at present, lost in an untrod forest a thousand miles from 
home and friends, and laid up with a broken leg ? ’ ’ 

“You might now have been a captive in an Indian 
village, doomed to a lifetime of misery and torture, with 
no hope of ever again seeing those dearest to you.” 

“True, dear,” Miss Innisdale replied, “yet it could 
not last. Death would end it early. ’ ’ 

“Would it?” asked the girl. “Sorrow does not kill, 
Miss Betty. The wretch who hungers for death generally 
lives longest.” 

“You are a grim philosopher, Fanny. Yet you cannot 
realize what such a life as you picture would mean 
to me.” 

Fanny Morgan did not reply at once. When at length 
she did, it was as if awakening with a sudden thought. 

“Miss Betty,” she said, “ten days ago you would not 
have believed all this possible, should you?” 

“I have lost all count of time, Fanny,” Beatrice re¬ 
plied. “But in that distant past in which I lived and 
was happy I could never have expected this.” 

“And if I had told you,” Fanny continued, “of an¬ 
other case precisely like it, you would have laughed at 
the tale as ridiculous fancy. ’ ’ 



147 


DAYS OF LONG AGO 

I don’t know. It does seem a nightmare even now. 
Was there such another ease?” 

She nodded her head almost imperceptibly, and once 
moie lapsed into silence. Beatrice repeated her ques¬ 
tion, but the girl did not at once reply. 

Suddenly she roused herself with an effort. 

“Miss Betty,” she said, “you have several times asked 
me about my early life. Shall I tell it to you now?” 

* ‘ If you will, dear. I have always wondered why you 
are so much of a mystery, and why the story of your 
childhood has been so strictly guarded. ’ ’ 

“It must be a secret still,” the girl snapped almost 
impatiently. “I tell it to you because you love me, be¬ 
cause you deserve it, and because it will help to cheer you 
up. You must forget it when we return to Virginia: I 
am not seeking sympathy.” 

Beatrice had become so accustomed to these queer, 
contradictory outbursts from the girl in reference to 
her past, that she was not surprised. She remained 
silent. 

“Your father,” Fanny went on, “is one of the 
wealthiest planters of Virginia, a soldier, a gentleman, 
and a friend of the governor’s. Lord Dunmore is the 
greatest personage in the country, yet even he is but the 
humble servant of his king. My father was the supreme 
king of our country, a peer of His August Majesty George 
the Third, with governors, chiefs and emissaries to do 
his bidding and render him the tribute of their people.” 

Her eyes sparkled with an imperial beam they had 
sheathed in her captivity. She was a princess once more. 
She swallowed a gulp, and her voice cleared. 

“I was his only child, the Princess Ubaba, the darling 
of the sweetest mother that ever lived, the spoiled and 
pampered pet of a noble and affectionate father, the idol 
of four hundred faithful slaves, the honored and beloved 
queen-to-be of Blessed Kubanda. I knew not what it 


148 


UNDER THE SKIN 


meant to toil, to care, to hunger for love. I was trained 
to be a queen,—that only. 

“A neighboring chieftain, old enough to be my grand¬ 
father, sought to make me his bride. His suit was re¬ 
buffed, and his presents returned. Next morning his 
marauding army encamped before our gates. 

“While my noble father and his warriors went forth 
to chastise the invaders, I went, unaccompanied to the 
temple of my God, where, with the priestesses, and the 
sacred Virgins of whom I was one, I offered prayer and 
song and sacrifice for the success of my countrymen. 

“At nightfall I started homewards alone. Out of the 
thicket two villains sprang, and struck me unconscious 
with a single blow. Then away, away through distant 
forests they bore me, as the Indians carried you; de¬ 
ceiving, threatening, insulting me, but ever dragging 
me on. 

“By daybreak my abductors learnt that my father, 
after dispersing his enemies, had discovered the loss of 
his child, and was hot upon their trail. They were on 
the point of slaying me, when, in the distance, there ap¬ 
peared a band of those detestable merchants who pander 
for your voracious countrymen blood of their own blood, 
and skin of their own. 

“To the Darfoor traders I was sold, and away to the 
distant ocean I was hurried, footsore and famished and 
fainting. Never more w r as I to see the heavenly smile 
of my darling mother, never the proud adoring eyes of 
my incomparable father. The adulations of my slaves,— 
of my devoted maid, Piriba,—the acclamations of my 
loyal people, the affectionate bark of my faithful Tum- 
tum, the trees, the birds, the rivers of Kubanda, all were 
gone forever, never to re-appear except in the fitful 
dreams of my troubled sleep. 

“With hundreds of others, I was huddled into a close, 
steaming, evil-smelling pen down in the bottom of a great 
ship. For months and months we rocked and lurched 


DAYS OF LONG AGO 


149 


about the ocean, never knowing where we were, or what 
was in store for us. Crowds died, and were cast over¬ 
board, but I—I had a greater sorrow, and so I lived. 

“We reached Virginia at length, and breathed God’s 
air once more. We were lined up in the market-place 
with chains upon our hands, and men came and bartered 
for us as if we had been so many hogsheads of tobacco, 
or so many bales of skin. And so I was sold into slavery, 
—I who had been a king’s daughter! 

“I was taken to the Sutcliffe Estate. My master was 
not considered brutal, yet servility had not been bred into 
me, and grew slowly. For four years I craved death, and 
had only sorrow instead. Then I came to Master Innis- 
dale. 

“Shortly after that I made up my mind to end it all 
in the only way that seemed possible. The inescapable 
insults, threats and demands of Master Culberson showed 
me how. For weeks he pestered me,—in the fields, in the 
settlement, in my cabin,—suing, promising, bartering, 
commanding. 

“The first time he came, he found me reading your 
father’s book. He asked where I got it; I told him Cuffy 
had found it on the dumping-ground and given it to me. 
He said it was all right; I could keep it, and have as 
many more as I wanted. Yet when I was adamant to all 
his entreaties, he brought me to the whipping-post upon 
a charge he knew was false. 

“Even there, he continued to barter—with me who 
hated life. I struck him on his vile mouth, well knowing 
that such mutiny meant certain death. 

“Then you stepped in, Miss Betty, and saved me for 
more sorrow. Yet you were kind to me. Yours were the 
first eyes in five miserable years in which I saw real love. 
You did not mock me with a meaningless sympathy; you 
acted as if I were but another girl of your own age, with 
aspirations, desires and ideals somewhat akin to yours. 
You kept me from slipping farther down, and I prayed 


150 


UNDER THE SKIN 


for the chance of showing that your love had not been 
wasted upon an unworthy creature. If ever the oppor¬ 
tunity arrives, you will see that Ubaba, too, can love, 
and can die for her she loves.” 

Beatrice had forgotten her fractured leg, her tender 
black eyes intent upon the enraptured face growing 
duskier in the shadowy twilight. At some unconscious 
moment during the narrative her hand had clasped that 
of the negress. Now she merely muttered: 

‘ ‘ My sister in sorrow. How you must have suffered! ’ ’ 
‘‘ I suffered as you would have suffered in the servitude 
of the Indian,” the girl answered. “Yet my muscles are 
still firm, and my lips can even smile. Sorrow does not 
kill” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


SISTERS BUT IN BLOOD 

Fanny Morgan spoke with a simple, straight-forward 
directness that gripped and held the interest of her 
tender-hearted mistress. The direct result of the narra¬ 
tive was to draw Beatrice’s attention completely away 
from her own troubles into the changing fortunes of the 
girl. All signs of suffering had passed from her thin 
face, and an expression of surprised admiration beamed 
from her eyes. 

“Tell me everything,” she urged eagerly, “—all about 
yourself and your people and your country. I, at least, 
am your friend.” 

The girl, ever reluctant to discuss herself and her past, 
nevertheless saw the beneficial effect of her recital upon 
her mistress. For the first time since that eventful night 
which had changed and marred her entire future, she 
allowed her mind to wander freely over the scenes of 
her happy and untrammelled childhood. 

The blackness without grew denser; within, the fea¬ 
tures of both were hidden. In the great alien heaven 
that curved over a narrow segment of the dim southwest, 
a dozen stars winked mockingly. The swishing of the 
waters almost at their very feet, the leaves that rustled 
in the breath of night, the countless though subdued 
noises of the wild hills, their own precarious plight and 
close, uncomfortable confinement, all were forgotten. 
Clasping each other’s hands huddled closely together, the 
one recounted, the other absorbed, the tale of nature in 
its purest simplicity. For in the long-gone days, the 
Princess Ubaba had studied nothing else. 

“That is Kubanda, Miss Betty,” the girl concluded 

151 


152 


UNDER THE SKIN 


with a faint sigh, “the Kubanda that I know and love; 
the dearest land on earth.” 

The moon had straggled into the bit of exposed sky, 
casting a pale glare into the cavern. It was nearly morn¬ 
ing, yet neither girl craved sleep. 

‘ ‘ One more, ’ ’ Beatrice pleaded. ‘ ‘ There is one of yonr 
friends whom you haven’t mentioned. Tell me about 
him, too.” 

“Another? I have told you all, Miss Betty.” 

“Some time ago,” Beatrice reminded, “you said that 
you had loved some one.” 

She seemed to start at this, but in a few seconds re¬ 
covered herself. 

‘ ‘ That, Miss Betty, you will not understand, ’ ’ she an¬ 
swered slowly, “nor can I. It will only lead you to mis¬ 
judge us both.” 

“No fear of that, dear,” Beatrice replied. “I am 
myself a girl, and your dearest friend. I shall not mis¬ 
judge you.” 

“Misjudge if you will,” she answered daringly, with 
that quick change which had ever characterized her. ‘ ‘ It 
is no shame to have loved the noblest,—the only man of 
his race who has ever deserved a woman’s heart. I shall 
tell you all about him.” 

Her pressure on Miss Innisdale’s hand relaxed. She 
rested her back more comfortably against a rock, and her 
eyes measured the distant patch of sky. 

“He was of an alien race,” she said softly, almost 
reverently, “the race most despised by our people, and 
for good reasons. Farther beneath me was he, much far¬ 
ther, than the meanest of your father’s slaves is beneath 
you now. Had he been seen anywhere by any member 
of my tribe, he would have been killed on the spot, and 
the entire nation would have held a celebration of the 
event. Yet I protected him, saved him, and loved him.” 

“That was indeed noble of you, Fanny,” said Beatrice. 


SISTERS BUT IN BLOOD 153 

How did he come to win the enmity of your people so 
completely ? ’ ’ 

“Principally,” answered the girl, “by being born with 
skin of another color. He was a white man!” 

‘ ‘ A white man, ’ ’ gasped Betty. ‘ ‘ Are all white men, 
then, so unpopular in Kubanda?” 

“They are not only unpopular,” Fanny replied; “they 
are unknown, except in dreams and fairy tales. This was 
the only white man ever seen in my country, and only 
three persons saw him there;—myself and my two most 
trusted slaves. 

‘ ‘ I had been alone in the woods that day. I heard the 
report of a gun, and went to investigate; for a gun was 
unknown to me then. I found him. He had shot a boar, 
but too late to save himself. The beast had gashed him 
nastily, and died upon him, its tusk buried in his flesh. 

“I dragged the carcass from above him, and nursed 
him back to life. Then I found that he understood our 
language. I hid him in a cave, and returned to my people. 

‘ * My mother, whom I first consulted, told me that white 
men were voracious, cannibalistic fiends, and that if one 
were ever seen in Kubanda he would be killed at once. 
Piriba averred that there never was any such creature. 
But I persuaded her, and at length she went with me, 
and saw what she had denied to be. 

“After that we went daily to his cave for the three 
weeks he remained. He told me the most wonderful 
things about his country and his people; he taught me 
his language, and he began teaching me to read. 

“But he had, unconsciously, taught me something 
greater, something far more wonderful. I dreamt of 
him at nights; I saw him peep at me from behind every 
shrub when I walked alone; I saw him in the clouds, and 
in the blue sky between the stars. 

“My heart hungered for him, and wakened me long 
before the dawn. At daylight I would hurry to be be¬ 
side him, and my happiness was insane. Yet our people 


154 


UNDER THE SKIN 


are taught from infancy to keep our emotion in our 
heart, and wear a mask upon our brow. By heroic misery 
I concealed from his god-like eyes the fire that burnt my 
soul. 

“The time for his departure came. My own ministra¬ 
tions had torn my heaven from me, and I knew that I 
should never be happy again, save only in remembering 
him. He promised to return to Kubanda,—to me,—and 
I knew he’d keep his word. And I promised,—but not 
to him,—that when he came again, I’d take his hand be¬ 
fore all my people, and lead him out, and place him to 
sit on the throne of my fathers beside me, and he would 
be my world. 

“That day I summoned Renjy, the most faithful of 
my slaves, and entrusted my idol to his care. It was a 
long and dangerous voyage to the shore of the great 
ocean, but Renjy was to guide and guard him there, 
bringing me word of his safe arrival. 

* ‘ Then he was gone from me, and my heart went with 
him. He left me writings that I should learn to read, 
and he gave me this token, which I have worn upon my 
breast and guarded at the risk of my life, for when I 
see it, I think I gaze into his face.” 

She untied a string around her neck, and pulled from 
beneath the bosom of her tattered dress a small object 
that shone in the pale moon-light. It was an English 
shilling, with a small hole through which the string 
passed. She placed it reverently in Miss Innisdale’s 
hand. 

“I’ve seen it before,” Beatrice exclaimed, “and won¬ 
dered what it was. You kept it all these years?” 

‘ ‘ I shall not part with it, ’ ’ she answered. ‘ ‘ It reminds 
me of him.” 

“And have you heard of him since?” 

‘ ‘ Not a word. Renjy did not return, though for three 
long years I waited. Perhaps he had taken the lad with 


SISTERS BUT IN BLOOD 155 

him to England, that they should return together to 
Kubanda.” 

“What was his name?” Beatrice asked. 

“I did not need to know his name,” she answered, 
‘ ‘ for to me he was the only one. But since I came to the 
white man’s country, I’ve often wished I knew it. There 
are the letters ‘A. H. P.’ on his gift. Those may be his 
initials. ’ ’ 

“Possibly. Yet that would offer little help. And you 
love him still ?” 

She opened wondering eyes at her mistress. 

“Of course I do. Love never dies. He is the only 
man I shall ever love, though all I had hoped is now im¬ 
possible. 

‘ 1 It was my thoughts of him that partly reconciled me 
to my lot. There were white men on the ship, and they 
were going to the land of the white man. I felt sure I 
should meet him there, a king amongst them; and then 
my troubles would cease. 

“I practised the language that he had taught me, and 
tried to learn more from my captors. You have said that 
I speak better English than the other slaves;—that’s 
why. When we landed from the ship, I looked for him 
everywhere, and it was long afterwards I learnt that 
this was not England,—not the country where he lived.” 

“And are you still trying to find him, Fanny?” 

She hesitated for a moment. 

“What difference could it make, Miss Betty?” she 
asked slowly. “I was a princess then; now, I’m but a 
negro slave.” 

The darkness slowly dispersed. The stars fled from the 
sky. The moon became a sober gray. 

“Why, it’s daylight.” Fanny Morgan cried. “I’ve 
kept you up all night, Miss Betty. Does your leg feel 
better now?” 

“My leg? Why, I forgot all about it,” Beatrice an¬ 
swered. ‘ ‘ But you have taught me a great lesson, Fanny. 


156 UNDER THE SKIN 

I shall endure my troubles even as you have endured 
yours. ’ ’ 

“I was sure of it, Miss Betty,” the girl answered; 
“that’s why I told you all. But you will not repeat it. 
Please promise me.” 

“Why, Fanny,” Miss Innisdale answered thought¬ 
fully, ‘ ‘ what harm can it do ? I intend to help you all I 
can, and what you have told me may aid. You will not 
urge me to keep it secret.” 

‘ ‘ Miss Betty, ’ ’ she pleaded tenderly, ‘ 1 if you had been 
taken to the Indian village, and had been dragged down 
and humiliated till you were below the meanest of the 
red-skins, you wouldn’t want the story of your past to be 
proclaimed abroad, should you?” 

“No, Fanny, I should not,” Beatrice conceded; “but 
in your case-” 

“Please promise me, Miss Betty,” Fanny interrupted, 
“or I shall be sorry I told you. So long as I live, you’ll 
not repeat it, unless I say you may.” 

“Very well, dear; since that is your wish, I promise. 
But I think you are making a mistake.” 

“Thank you,” she said. “Now I shall go to seek more 
berries. You ate but few last night. There are plenty 
around; I shan’t be long.” 

In fifteen minutes she was back, with a supply of nuts 
and berries, together with an armful of dripping water- 
cresses she had found. Last night she had been the 
Princess Ubaba, wafted back to beloved Kubanda on 
the wings of unrestricted fancy, and encouraged by 
Miss Innisdale’s sympathetic ear: this morning she was 
Fanny Morgan once more, her only apparent thought the 
care and welfare of her young mistress. She examined 
her bandaged leg, arranged her shabby dress and tangled 
hair with the same devotion she had practised at Innis- 
mount, and then placed before her as tempting a break¬ 
fast as the situation permitted. 

Beatrice ate the repast with quiet resignation, and it 



SISTERS BUT IN BLOOD 157 

was the slave-girl who once more reverted to the predica¬ 
ment they were in. 

“Miss Betty,” she asked, “have you yet decided on 
any plan for us to follow ? ’ ’ 

“I can think of nothing, dear,” Beatrice answered. 
“Have you something to suggest?” 

“It seems to me,” she replied, “that we cannot wait 
here for chance aid; neither can we await your complete 
recovery. I could reach Innismount in five days; possibly 
four. I could bring you help in ten days at most.” 

Beatrice did not reply. She was looking at the sug¬ 
gestion from every angle. 

“There are lots of berries around,” Fanny Morgan 
continued, “and I have little doubt I can find more 
cresses. I shall make your couch nearer to the edge of 
the stream, so that you can get water without having to 
move your leg; and if I place the cresses and berries in 
the water, within reach of your hand, they will probably 
keep for three or four days. After they are gone bad, 
you will have to depend on nuts. They will keep for a 
very long time, and I can gather enough to last you a 
month. Of course, you’ll be very lonely and uncom¬ 
fortable, but every day you’ll know that help is nearer.” 

“And you,” Beatrice answered unselfishly, “would go 
by the way you came, along the river, although you know 
that by this time it is watched by the Indians. ’ ’ 

“I’m not afraid of them,” the girl answered lightly. 
“I have already outwitted them more than once, and 
now I shall be doubly cautious. If you promise not to 
despair, and not to move your leg, I shall go, and shall 
bring you help as quickly as it can be done.” 

“It is a desperate chance, Fanny,” said Beatrice, “yet 
it seems the only chance. If you think it best, dear, you 
may go. I can do nothing.” 

She divested Miss Innisdale of her skirt, and, using it 
as a bag, started off into the woods. Trip after trip she 
made, and long before noon, she had collected several 


158 


UNDER THE SKIN 


bushels of nuts and berries, as well as a good supply of 
water-cresses. When she was satisfied that her store was 
sufficient, she prepared a new couch about a yard from 
the edge of the water, and lifted her mistress to it. 

4 4 The shelter is not as good as it is farther in the cave, ’ r 
she said, “but the sun will only strike you for less than 
an hour,—in the afternoon, when its heat is spent,—and 
rain will not catch you unless there is a strong wind in 
this direction. In that case, you’ll have to try to roll 
back just a little. Is there anything else I ought to ar¬ 
range ? ’ ’ 

“Nothing else, dear,” Beatrice answered. “I’ll make 
out very well. ’ ’ 

“You’ll be alone for a long time, Miss Betty,” said 
the girl. “You will not fret and worry, shall you?” 

“I shall not worry, dear. I promise you.” 

Fanny Morgan looked at her with a taunting smile. 

“Does the white woman keep her word?” she asked. 

Betty’s answers had been palpably formal. The ques¬ 
tion jolted her. 

“Yes, dear,” she answered firmly, “the white woman 
keeps her word.” 

4 4 She’s as true as the black, isn’t she ?—and as brave ? ’ ’ 

4 4 She is both, dear. As true and brave as any princess, 
white or black. We are sisters, Fanny; sisters in mis¬ 
fortune. You shall never disown me. Here is my hand. ’ ’ 

Fanny Morgan raised the thin, white hand to her lips. 

4 4 Thank you, Miss Betty, ’ ’ she said. 4 4 1 knew it. But 
it is so hard to be brave sometimes.” 

“There can be no immediate danger,” said Beatrice, 

4 4 unless the Indians pick up your tracks and follow them 
here.” 

4 4 1 shall be very careful to leave none in the neighbor¬ 
hood, ’ ’ the girl answered, 4 4 and they can hardly find you 
here by chance. But even if they take you away, do not 
despair: I shall follow you again, and rescue you out of 
their securest stronghold. If by any chance friends come 


SISTERS BUT IN BLOOD 159 

upon you before I return, and wish to remove you, lay 
a handful of these pebbles to form a circle in this space, 
that I may know you are safe. If Indians come, lay 

them to form a cross if you have time: if not, I shall 
know.” 

4 ‘I’ll do that, dear,” Beatrice replied. “And every 
morning I shall drop a pebble in this corner, so that you 
may know how long I stayed. Now, go, dear. May God 
bless you.” 

Fanny Morgan took the hand she held out, and clasped 
it firmly between hers. 

“Miss Betty,” she said in a voice the other had never 
heard before, “it is a long, hard journey. If I am later 
than I promised, you will not despair: if you never see 
me again, you will not think I have deserted you.” 

“Kiss me, dear,” Beatrice answered tenderly, “—no, 
my lips, not my hand. I know you now, Fanny. What¬ 
ever happens, I shall never, never think that you had 
forsaken me.” 

She was gone, tripping swiftly, buoyantly over the 
rocks as if she went on some joyous errand. Beatrice 
watched her till she disappeared where the river curved 
out of sight, then she brushed a tear-drop from her eye, 
and, sighing wearily, sank back to contemplate the im¬ 
possible task she had set herself,—the task of not to 
worry. 

Reared in the lap of luxury, a dozen servants to her 
every call, the pampered idol of an adoring father, ever 
the centre of a crowd of friends and admirers, it was 
almost impossible that Beatrice Innisdale should accept 
her lot with that stoicism which heredity had bestowed 
upon Fanny Morgan. Her very helplessness and inac¬ 
tivity removed the chief sustenance that the spirit of 
the negro princess had enjoyed; and her lack of com¬ 
munion with her kind focussed her attention on her 
fate, and intensified the magnitude of her suffering. 

Yet it was the story of the negress that she now 


160 


UNDER THE SKIN 


contemplated; it was the uncomplaining fortitude of the 
Princess Ubaba that she tried to emulate; it was her 
promise to Fanny Morgan that she over and over re¬ 
solved to fulfil. Repeatedly she convinced herself that 
the white woman was as heroic, as strong-willed, as the 
black; then slowly her thoughts drifted back to the con¬ 
sideration of her actual situation. Ah; but she did not 
know of the fears, the aches, the utter desperation that 
had, too, assailed the heart of the Princess Ubaba. 

The evening passed slowly along. Her leg had not 
been unduly painful all that day; there had been so 
much to draw her mind away from her physical suffer¬ 
ing. Now, her greatest task was to devise something 
that would keep her thoughts from her surroundings,— 
something that would take the place of thinking. 

She tried to reconstruct and repeat long scenes from 
Shakespeare which she had read, or seen in the theatre at 
Williamsburg. She tried to recite lengthy passages from 
Milton, from Pope, from the Bible. She endeavoured to 
remember, to translate, criticise and improve, the long 
Latin poem her brother had written for the Fifth of 
November Exercises at William and Mary the year he 
graduated. 

At length her over-taxed mind sought repose, and she 
slept soundly till the sunlight of another day suffused the 
hills. 

She dropped a pebble in the appointed corner, to 
number her days, breakfasted from the supplies left 
her, and washed it down with water she scooped up with 
her hands. 

She began to feel more cheerful after that. She had 
unbounded faith in Fanny Morgan, and felt assured of 
her success. She hummed snatches of lively airs she 
knew, though she was careful not to raise her voice. She 
made imaginary pictures of the small bit of landscape 
she could see, and of other landscapes she had seen. She 
addressed poems to nature, to the woods, to the hills; 


SISTERS BUT IN BLOOD 161 

and as she had no means of writing them, she spoke them 
out aloud. 

She slept early that night, but her slumber was less 
restful. Towards morning, her sleeping mind reverted to 
her plight. She dreamt that, with Fanny Morgan, she 
was fleeing from the Indians. They reached the edge 
of the mountain, and stood on the brink of a precipice, its 
sheer, perpendicular sides lost in the smoky depths be¬ 
low. Behind them was a murderous, yelling crowd; on 
either side the rocks rose impassable. At that instant, 
a white man whose eyes shone like twin suns, mounted 
on a foaming wild boar, dashed out of the clouds, and 
charged into the pursuing Indians. They scattered to 
right and left, but one bronzed warrior, fleeing in their 
direction, stumbled against Fanny Morgan. Beatrice 
put forth a hand to steady her companion: the pair 
swayed for an instant, then, fast in each other’s embrace, 
toppled over the edge of the precipice. Down, down, 
down they sank; it seemed as if they would never reach 
the bottom; till at length the smoke cleared, and they 
saw, directly beneath them, a massive bonfire, around 
which a host of Mabode warriors danced while they 
brandished threatening spears. 

She uttered a piercing scream, and sat bolt upright, 
her frightened eyes scanning the surrounding gloom. 
The perspiration oozed freely from her face and hands; 
her veins were swollen taut and pulsing rapidly. 

Sleep forsook her after that. Some telepathic instinct 
told her that Fanny Morgan was in danger, and that 
danger to her was its inevitable consequence. 

The distant hill-tops reflected the waxing moonlight. 
She knew it was nearing dawn. She lay awake, and gave 
her direful forebodings unbridled scope. 

That day she was miserable. She ate nothing, and 
strained her ears for the approaching footsteps of her 
pursuers. Every falling leaf or rustling twig, every gust 



162 


UNDER THE SKIN 


of wind through the branches, gave her a new scare. Yet 
the long day wore slowly away, and nothing happened. 

Her leg, too, had ached terribly. That she had hurt 
it during her troubled sleep she had little doubt, but 
the bandages were still firm in their place, and she could 
do nothing. She abandoned herself to her sorrow. 

That night she dared not sleep. Her brain burned 
within her; she was nervous and restless, almost hopeless. 
One of two things, she felt sure, had happened to her 
maid. Either the girl had been taken by Indians, or else 
she had fallen over some precipice as she herself had 
done, and now lay huddled and helpless below. No other 
explanation of her dream seemed possible. 

When the logs crackle merrily in the hearth, and the 
laughter of loved ones fills the cosy room, it is easy to 
spurn dreams as figments of idle fancy: alone and help¬ 
less, in a tractless forest, hundreds of miles from the 
nearest habitation, with one chance in a million of succor, 
and maddened savages on the hunt, they carry a portent 
the boldest may not ignore. Beatrice gave her imagi¬ 
nation full play, and her fears fattened on themselves. 

The night dragged on more slowly than the day. After 
an eternity of suspense almost unbearable, the first signs 
of day appeared. Tardily the dawn crept over the hills; 
some fatalistic instinct told her it was the last. She 
dropped another pebble in the corner where she had kept 
tab on the days of her solitude, and counted the number. 
Three ? She had expected to find a thousand. 

It was broad daylight now, and her vigil was easier. 
Whatever fate menaced her would not come unseen. She 
remembered her promise to Fanny Morgan,—a cross of 
pebbles if Indians came upon her;—for Indians was all 
she feared. True, Fanny Morgan might never return, 
yet—she would keep her word. 

She was not fully conscious now. All night, fitful, 
mocking images had danced before her; in the bright 
sunlight they still flitted by. She closed her eyes to keep 


163 


SISTERS BUT IN BLOOD 

out the maddening vision. Yet she could not sleep, and 
the waking nightmares were worse than any that might 
have infested her dreams. She wondered whether she 
was going mad; she knew her sanity could not last much 
longer. 

The sun peered down upon her. She knew it was late 
afternoon. Heavens! Must she endure another night of 
this? Another night? And that would not be all;—a 
week, a month, a year, an eternity, till sanity was gone 
and vacuity came;—vacuity, or death. 

She started up;—it could not be at a sound, for there 
was none. She peered down the river-course. Around 
the curve, a hundred yards away, an Indian darted. She 
rubbed her eyes, lest this was but another dream, then 
looked again. It was not fancy this:—an Indian sprang 
lightly over the rocks towards her, war-paint and gun 
and brandished knife proclaiming his race and purpose. 

Suddenly he paused, and gazed into the cave. His eyes 
met hers. He turned, and uttered a shout of triumph. 
From around the curve, three other Indians sprang 
beside him. He pointed to the cave, then called again. 
Two other Indians came up. Six she saw, and still others 
were coming. 

Beatrice turned calmly over on her side. She was not 
afraid now\ Reality was less trying than suspense. 
From the heap of pebbles that lay before her, she 
gathered a handful, and coolly laid them out to form a 
cross. 


CHAPTER XXY. 


AMONG FIENDS. 

Fanny Morgan sped down the river-course with all 
the agility that nine days of wild roaming in untraversed 
forests had left her. The encouragement and confidence 
she had read in Miss Innisdale’s eyes at their last parting 
seemed to have added to her strength of purpose, and 
she covered the ground at an incredible speed. 

By keeping to the water whenever possible, she felt 
that her trail could not be easily found, and whenever 
she had to struggle through the jungles, she was careful 
to leave little sign of her passage. Yet, with the natural 
instinct of the forest-bred, she closely noted the hills, the 
woods, the watercourse and the general contour of the 
country, so that, on her return, she could at a glance, 
readily locate the spot from any direction. 

The girl did not under-estimate the difficulties before 
her. That hostile Indians infested her path she never 
doubted: yet she knew that only by following her former 
trail could she make the quickest time. 

It w T as near noon when she started on her hazardous 
journey. An hour after the sun disappeared from her 
view, she came upon the wide river up which she had 
followed her mistress. She figured that she had covered 
some forty miles in perhaps eight hours. 

It was no longer necessary to cover her tracks. She 
picked up her former trail, but soon discovered that it 
had since been followed by persons going in the same 
direction in which she was now travelling. She swam 
across the river, resolved to journey along the farther 
bank. 

There was no moon, and the night was dark, but the 

164 


AMONG FIENDS 165 

river marked her course unmistakably. She plodded on, 
making poor progress in the darkness, yet unwilling to 
lose any time. It was nearing midnight when she sank 
into a thicket for a brief respite. 

She slept soundly for a few hours. When she awoke 
the moon was just appearing over the hills. She once 
more started on her journey, making better speed in the 
increasing moonlight. 

Daylight brought her greater aid. She remembered 
points she had passed on her trip up the river, and felt 
that she was now going faster. That she should reach 
Innismount in three days more seemed certain. 

She felt almost worn out when she sank under the trees 
the second night. In order to finish the journey, she must 
have more rest. She allowed herself some five hours’ 
sleep, once more awaking with the moon. 

Again she pushed forward, tearing through the under¬ 
growth with more speed than caution. She was rapidly 
discounting her chances of falling into hostile hands. 
Her immunity for two days lent her courage. The forest 
was a big place, and unless the Indians were within a 
hundred yards of her, she might yet pass them un¬ 
observed. 

A gruff call, almost at her elbow, froze the blood in 
her veins. Abruptly she stood motionless as one of the 
pine trees around, but the ruse which had formerly saved 
her from Indian observation came too late now. Two 
savages, who might have been tree-trunks in the darkness, 
approached, one on either side, and bound her hands 
together. 

‘‘Save me,’’ she pleaded, “I am lost in the forest.’’ 

The men did not seem to understand English. They 
gave no answer, but led her off into the deeper woods. 

At the base of a small hill half-a-mile farther they 
halted, and one of them gave a low whistle. A dozen 
men seemed to spring noiselessly out of the earth, and 
surrounded them. 


166 


UNDER THE SKIN 


For a moment the Indians conversed together. Then 
one of them, who seemed to be the leader, approached her. 

“Who are you?” he demanded in a coarse, guttural 
half-English, which, however, was not unintelligible to 
the girl. 

“I am a poor slave-girl,” Fanny Morgan answered. 
“I am lost in the forest, and but seek my way out.’’ 

“Why did you come into the forest?” the Indian 
asked. 

“I came with my mistress,” Fanny replied. 

“Where is your mistress?” asked the savage. 

“She is laid up in the woods with a broken leg,” an¬ 
swered the girl. ‘ ‘ I must take her aid. ’ ? 

“Take us to your mistress,” the man ordered. 

She hesitated for a moment, than sank to her knees. 

“Great chief,” she cried pleadingly, “my mistress is 
the only person who has been kind to me in my long cap¬ 
tivity. She is dear to me as a sister, and I cannot betray 
her. Will you promise me on the word of a brave 
warrior, will you swear by the Great Spirit to whom you 
trust for admission to the Happy Hunting Grounds in the 
hereafter, that if I lead you to my mistress you shall do 
her no harm, and shall return her to her friends and 
her home?” 

The Indian chuckled hoarsely, and translated her reply 
to those of his men who did not understand English. The 
company uttered a wicked, gleeful laugh. 

The Indian turned to her once more, without answer¬ 
ing her question. 

“Is your mistress,” he asked, “the woman who was 
taken up the river in a boat by four of my countrymen ? ’ ’ 

‘ 4 She is the same, great chief, * ’ Fanny admitted. ‘ ‘ But 
she must have been mistaken for another. My mistress 
has never done injury to anyone.” 

“Where are her rescuers?” asked the Indian. “We 
are looking for her and for them.” 


AMONG FIENDS 167 

“They are somewhere in the woods/’ the girl an¬ 
swered. “I have not seen them.” 

“What?” cried the Indian. “Have they deserted 
her?” 

“No, great chief; they never found her.” 

“They did not? Then who struck down the men left 
to guard her, and fled into the woods with her?” 

“I did,” the girl replied. “My mistress has been kind 
to me, and I tried to save her, as you would have done 
for one of your own people whom you loved.” 

The Indians conversed among themselves once more. 
Apparently there was a difference of opinion, and the 
leader, perhaps because he had discovered the tracks of 
but one person, seemed to believe her. 

Again he turned to her. 

“With that we shall deal later,” he said. “At present 
you must take us to the white woman. Upon your readi¬ 
ness to do so your own safety shall depend.” 

“Shall you save her for me, great chief,” she asked, 
11 and return her to her people ? ’ 5 

“No,” roared the Indian angrily, “we shall take her 
to our people that they may have their revenge.” 

“Revenge? You mistake her,” said the girl. “My 
mistress has never done anything that could merit re¬ 
venge. What is her crime?” 

“She is the squaw,” said the Indian, “of the man 
who wrecked our homes and burnt our villages, who 
butchered our wives and our children, and trampled his 
bloody heels upon the breasts of our loved ones. We shall 
have our revenge though hosts of defiant palefaces bar 
our path.” 

“You are wrong,’’ cried the girl. ‘‘The man who slew 
your people and won your hate is also an enemy of hers. 
He would do the same to her had he the power.” 

“We know otherwise,” answered the Indian, “for 
many of our people have traded in your village, and know 


168 UNDER THE SKIN 

the palefaces. Your prayers cannot save your mistress: 
lead us to her.” 

“ Please hear me, great chieftain of a great and noble 
tribe,” cried the girl desperately. “I am but as one of 
you. At the hands of the paleface, I have suffered cruel¬ 
ties, indignities, barbarities greater than any that have 
been inflicted upon you. Gladly would I see the white 
men driven from the land, and I should be first to tear 
out the eyes of the accursed monster who would wrong 
your people as he has wronged mine. But this my mis¬ 
tress has no share, no sympathy, in these cruelties. She 
alone is innocent of the white man’s guilt. She loves 
my people and yours. Let your vengeance fall upon the 
strong brutal men who injure you, and I shall aid you; 
but this frail, fragile flower of Virginia, who has brought 
comfort to one broken heart, who has returned love to 
one barren soul, let your vengeance not fall upon her, 
and she will befriend and protect you from the white 
murderers. Save her for me, and your mercy will justify 
and uphold your cause.” 

The Indian chuckled again,—that cold, heartless, mock¬ 
ing croak that rasped her nerves. 

“No,” he said slowly, “I shall not save her. And I 
can lose no more time. You must guide us to your mis¬ 
tress.” 

“I will not,” she answered with a determination that 
steadied her voice. “You may kill me if you will. I shall 
not betray her trust in me. ’ ’ 

“Oh, you won’t?” the Indian questioned tauntingly. 
“We shall see.” 

He gave a curt order to his men, and three of them 
darted into the woods. In five minutes they re-appeared, 
and approached the girl. 

One of them carried a handful of small splinters of 
wood, whittled to a needle-point, the entire piece hardly 
bigger than a large needle. While one of the men 
stretched out the girl’s left arm, and another held her 


AMONG FIENDS 169 

right, the third placed the needle-point upon the bare 
black skin, and pressed it slowly down till it sank about 
an inch into the flesh. 

Fanny Morgan gave a slight twitch at the first pang 
of pain, then a film seemed to sheathe her eyes, and the 
spirit of her fathers woke up in her breast. 

“Tell us where your mistress is,” croaked her ques¬ 
tioner, as the man applied a second needle some two 
inches lower down her arm. 

The splinter sank. She uttered no sound; not a muscle 
twitched. Her eyes were fixed upon the pale moon that 
slowly grew paler; upon the myriad stars that twinkled 
in the distance, and then ceased to be stars. But to her 
they shone from another land. She was in beloved Ku- 
banda once more, and she was again the Princess Ubaba. 

Again she saw the lordly Ntikkigama as he sat in 
majesty to listen to the Mabode ambassadors, when not 
a muscle showed emotion though he knew his visitors were 
treacherous spies. Again she saw him wounded, troubled, 
but emotionless. So, she knew, he would have wanted 
her to endure pain,—as a Zandey, and a princess. 

She could see the eyes of Alali, and of Piriba, and of 
the legions of her people, admiring her stoicism. Again 
she w r as one of the bundu before the sacred altar of Gum- 
bah, and she heard and saw the encouragement and ap¬ 
probation of the priestesses and the sacred virgins. A 
single wordless, expressionless prayer burst from her 
heart to that Great Light to whom, though it had con¬ 
sistently disregarded her appeals, she had never ceased to 
pray,—it was for the safety of the white woman, help¬ 
less in a mountain cavern a hundred miles away. The 
voice of Alali rang in her ears: “Choose honor rather 
than life, for love and truth and purity live after death.” 

Her tormentors had stuck a dozen splinters into her 
left arm, and, finding no more room, turned to her right. 
Great drops of perspiration stood on her brow, and her 
heart was throbbing fast. The pain was excruciating, but 


170 


UNDER THE SKIN 


she would not give her enemies the satisfaction of know¬ 
ing that she felt. She hoped only for strength to endure 
expressionless till she could endure no more. 

“Give her another spike/’ she heard the monotonous 
growl of the leader again and again. “Now, are you 
willing to tell us where your mistress is?” 

Her strength was rapidly slipping from her. Her head 
was whirling, and the moon was skipping about the wide, 
hazy heavens. She felt her consciousness was going,— 
her life was being dragged away from her by the unend¬ 
ing torture of these hell-fiends. And there was no hope, 
no rescue, except the sacrifice of her mistress. 

“Another spike, boys. Now, are you willing to show 
us where your mistress is?” 

“Gome, I’ll take you to her,” she gasped, and sank to 
the ground exhausted. 


x 


CHAPTER XXYI. 


CIRCLES OF FIRE. 

It was some minutes before Fanny Morgan recovered 
sufficient strength to rise from the spot where she had 
fallen. Around her stood a grinning circle of painted 
savages, their eyes gleaming with fiendish satisfaction 
at the success of their orgy. 

The prods, which had been left in her flesh, were, at' 
the order of the captain, deftly withdrawn; one of the 
Indians took his place at her left side, and two others, 
with their rifles held ready for any emergency, followed 
close behind. The rest of the company trooped after, 
some sixteen men in all, armed with guns, spears and 
long knives. 

The first streaks of dawn were already lighting the 
eastern hills. Fanny Morgan set her face steadily 
towards the day, and led the way silently. She reached 
the river, and continued down its course. That she could 
for long deceive her captors she dared not hope; yet 
whatever respite she could win might be to her advantage. 
The course she followed led towards Virginia, and from 
Virginia alone she still expected help. Ten days before, 
when she had travelled that same road in the reverse 
direction, she had firmly expected Miss Innisdale’s res- * 
cuers to overtake her: now she as sincerely hoped she 
should meet them on the trail. 

The day broadened out. She hurried along as speedily 
as when she went alone. Her arms were sore, and hung 
almost helpless at her side, but, cat-like, she crept through 
the thickets with little need for them. 

The sun had covered a quarter of its course. She kept 
her eyes and ears alert for some sign of possible help,— 

171 


172 


UNDER THE SKIN 


for some means of escape. But she was too closely 
watched to make an attempt advisable. If they would 
only follow her at her killing speed till night, per¬ 
haps— 

The captain came up to her. 

“Girl, is your mistress far away?” he asked. 

“Yes, far,” she answered; “very far.” 

“How long were you in coming?” 

“Nearly three days,” she replied. “It’s a long dis¬ 
tance.” 

“In this direction?” 

“In this direction,” the girl repeated. “I came up 
the river.” 

“You lie,” roared the Indian. “Had you been three 
days’ journey down the river, you would have been in 
the white man’s country. You would not have come 
here seeking aid.” 

“We thought we ought to have been in the white man’s 
country,” Fanny replied. “But we were lost, and did 
not know where we were.” 

‘ ‘ Then show us the trail by which you came, ’ ’ said the 
Indian, “that we may know you speak truth.” 

“I have been looking for it,” the girl answered, “and 
must be close to it; but I took pains not to make it too 
plain, and now I cannot find it.” 

“ ’Twere best you did, and that right soon,” the In¬ 
dian snarled, “else you’ll regret trying to deceive us.” 

Fanny Morgan began zig-zagging through the woods, as 
if in search of a trail, but without success. 

In another hour, the Indian halted his men on a 
little cleared knoll that over-looked the river. As he 
spoke to them, there was something in his voice and 
manner that sent a chill through the girl’s strong heart. 
She tried to nerve herself for whatever ordeal of torture 
was in store for her, and assured herself that she would 
die without betraying her mistress. For she knew she 
had not enough strength left to outlive much suffering. 



CIRCLES OF FIRE 


173 


The Indians hastily scattered into the woods, leaving 
only the leader and one of his men to guard the girl. 
The leader turned to her. 

“We knew from the outset,” he said, “that you were 
deceiving us, and hoping to lead us into the hands of the 
paleface like suckling babes. But it suited our purpose 
to follow you here, since here, in any case, we intended 
to come. Now you shall see how the Indians treat those 
who would betray them.” 

“Yet, great chief,” the girl pleaded, “you would have 
me betray one who is dear to me, and has never done 
harm to you. Think how much meaner that would be.” 

The savage did not answer. His lips curled with a 
mocking sneer, and his eyes flashed a malicious fire. He 
gave a curt order to his companion, and turned away. 

The man led Fanny Morgan to a tree near the top of 
the mound, and bound her to it with a tough thong. One 
by one the other Indians returned, each bearing a bundle 
of fire-wood. They threw them near the tree, and hur¬ 
ried back for other bundles. 

Surrounding the tree, ten paces away, the dried wood 
was piled into a great circle. Another circle of heavier 
wood was piled inside of that, five paces away from the 
girl. When these preparations were complete, the In¬ 
dian once more approached her. 

“We are going to light the outer timber,” he said, 
“and while that burns, if you decide to come to terms, 
it may be possible to rescue you. The inner circle will 
be lighted by sparks from the other,—I cannot say how 
soon. When that starts to burn, we can do nothing. 
Choose for yourself.” 

Not the entire line of Zandey kings, from that first, 
deified ancestor lost in hallowed mythology to the re¬ 
nowned Ntikkigama who now, perhaps, still sat on the 
throne of his fathers, ever lifted a prouder head, ever 
expressed a scorn more regal, than Fanny Morgan turned 
to her tormentor. 


174 


UNDER THE SKIN 


“Murderous, dishonorable coward, I defy you,” she 
said. “You are sixteen armed warriors, against one un¬ 
offending girl; yet you descend to this. Your barbarity 
shall avail you nothing. If, perchance, you escape the 
fate you deserve, and return to your wigwams to boast 
to your squaws and your brats of the valorous deeds you 
have achieved, you will have to admit that you were de¬ 
fied and beaten by a girl,—a negro slave girl. ’ ’ 

She turned her back upon him. He shrugged his 
shoulders and walked slowly away. One of the men pro¬ 
duced a tinder-box, and started a fire. 

In a few minutes the entire outer circle was a blazing 
mass, through which it was barely possible to distinguish 
the girl. She stood motionless, as queenly as when she 
had addressed the warriors of Kubanda. The smoke 
blinded her; she struggled for breath, as if the circle 
of fire cut off her supply of air; the heat on all sides 
grew intense; but still she uttered no sound. This, she 
knew, was the end; it could not be long delayed. And 
in a mountain cavern far away, her w r ounded mistress 
waited! Would Miss Betty ever understand that Fanny 
Morgan had not failed her ? 

The flames leapt across the vacant space, and caught 
the inner circle. The heat was unbearable now. She felt 
her bones slowly baking within her; she knew her blood 
was dried up, and an overpowering thirst seized her. 
Oh, for one drop of water from the blessed river of 
Kubanda! 

She swallowed great gulps of thick, black smoke, but 
there was not a breath of air. Her eyes watered, and 
were swollen tightly shut, yet before her vision countless 
black figures danced gleefully,—danced and laughed and 
prodded the fire with long, fiery poles. 

Human endurance could stand no more. Fanny Mor¬ 
gan sank to the ground, and the flames around leapt to 
the skies in fiendish delight. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


RECOGNITION. 

A boat rowed swiftly up the river. Behind it, three 
other boats trailed. In each boat were six men,—stal¬ 
wart, and armed, and painted. Their eyes were on the 
blazing mound. 

Prom the boat they signalled to the men on the hill, and 
received an answering signal. The Indian leader, with 
two of his men, hurried down to the edge of the water, 
as the foremost boat approached the shore. While it 
was still ten feet off, one of its occupants sprang lightly 
to the rocks. 

He was a dark, tanned Indian, nearly six feet tall 
though rather thin for his height, with a long nose, and 
eyes, if possible, fiercer than those of the others. He ran 
hastily over the rocks to join the men. 

“Whom have you there, Fat Bull?” he asked gruffly, 
pointing to the flaming hillock, and ignoring the perfunc¬ 
tory salute the other offered. 

“A woman, chief,” the other answered. “We caught 
her-” 

“The woman we seek?” 

“No, chief. Her negro slave. She was with her mis¬ 
tress and-” 

“And you burn her? Fat Bull, you are a fool. Dead 
men tell no tales, nor dead slaves either. Keep her alive, 
and let her lead us to her mistress.” 

“I have tried to do so, chief; but the girl refuses-” 

“Nonsense, Fat Bull. That is because you don’t know 
how to question her. Go, rescue her. She’ll tell me.” 

“It is too late, chief. The inner circle is ablaze.” 

“Coward,” roared the chief, “do you bandy words 

175 





176 


UNDER THE SKIN 


with me? Hey, men; get the woman out of the flames 
yonder. Quick! The inner circle burns.” 

The men from the boats joined the Indians already 
on the hill, and madly attacked the flames. With long 
poles they tossed the blazing logs aside, drew back for a 
breath of air, then again attacked the fire. At length 
they made a road through the blazing embers, and two 
men, holding their breath, darted into the centre of the 
circle, lifted the limp figure there, and dragged it out 
into the open. 

The chief looked on in silent satisfaction till he saw 
his victim’s form drawn out of the flames. Then, with¬ 
out another glance at her, he turned to one of his fol¬ 
lowers. 

“Revive her,” he said. “Give her drink and food. 
When she speaks, bring her down to me. Fat Bull, you’ll 
accompany me to the boat.” 

“What have you given her?” he asked as the other 
joined him. 

‘ ‘ I gave her the prods, chief; twelve in each arm, and 
fully an inch deep,” Fat Bull answered. “Then she 
promised to lead us to her mistress, but led us astray 
instead. After that, I gave her the fiery circles.” 

“Not enough, Fat Bull; not nearly enough,” said the 
chief. “Your heart is as soft as your head. Watch me, 
Fat Bull. I swear that she shall lead me to her mistress 
if I have to flay her alive, and remove her flesh ounce 
by ounce. Already we have lost several days in the 
search for this white squaw, and we have not found a 
trace of her till this that you would burn. Without her 
aid, we mightn’t find her for another month; and mean¬ 
time the Virginians are arming for combat.” 

“I know it, chief,” Fat Bull replied. “But this 
woman is different from any I ever saw before. She 
never uttered a groan at the prods; never seemed to 
feel them; and she never turned in the circle. She is 
the most stubborn creature I have ever seen.” 


RECOGNITION 


177 


“I have met the kind before,” the chief nodded. 
“Leave her to me, Fat Bull. I’ll break her sure enough, 
and that without burning her;—at least, not till she 
has served my purpose. What have you learnt?” 

“Nothing, chief. We have searched the country inch 
by inch, from the site of the rescue downwards, but there 
is not a trace anywhere of the missing woman, and not 
a track except that we discovered from the first. Have 
you found anything?” 

‘ ‘ Nothing, ’ ’ answered the chief, ‘ 4 save that the woman 
has not returned to her people. We followed the river 
down to the Virginian borders, and undertook a trip 
inland. The search for the woman is still proceeding, 
and a band of white men, suspecting that she has been 
taken by Indians, has proceeded up the Wagawalla, as 
the natural road to what they call the Indian country. 
Others are busily preparing for an Indian war; but the 
government and the people are at loggerheads, and if 
the signs read correctly, the impending conflict will not 
be against us. But we shall not be afraid of the white 
man’s vengeance, Fat Bull, only, w'e must find the woman 
first.” 

There was the crunch of feet on the pebbles. Fanny 
Morgan, supported by two Indians, was approaching. 

It was the girl’s utter exhaustion that had made her 
resuscitation possible. Had she been stronger at the time 
of her latest torture, she would have remained on her 
feet for a longer period, and probably inhaled con¬ 
siderably more smoke, and even flames. Collapsing as 
early as she did, however, she fell below the level of 
the densest smoke, and wholly escaped the flames, so that 
her chief trouble was lack of oxygen. Removed so soon 
afterwards, the rich ozone of the forest, the skill of the 
Indian medicine-man, and her own, enduring constitu¬ 
tion immediately brought her partial relief. 

Chief Longbeak gave a single glance at the approach¬ 
ing three, smiled grimly at Fat Bull, and faced in the 


178 


UNDER THE SKIN 


opposite direction. From a pouch, he pulled a tiny, 
sharp-pointed knife with a keen razor-edge, and stood 
idly stropping it on the palm of his hand. 

“We have brought you the black woman, chief,” said 
one of the Indians. ‘ 4 She is able to speak. ’ ’ 

Longbeak spun round on his heels, his fierce eyes flash¬ 
ing fire. Perhaps he hoped to cow her- in his first mad 
charge. 

“They tell me,” he snorted, “that you refused-” 

His eyes met hers. The words froze on his lips. 
Slowly he sank on one knee, imitating the atonement of 
the white man. 

“Is it you, my angel?” he whined in astonishment, 
“-you, you, you?” 

Fanny Morgan’s head had not sufficiently cleared to 
understand the change. She stood gazing silently at him. 

“You stood beside her on the ship,” said Longbeak. 
“You saved my child.” 

Suddenly recollection cleared her eyes. 

“You are the man he threw overboard,” she cried. “I 
thought I had seen you before, but could not remember.” 

“You saved my child,” the Indian answered. “I owe 
you a life. Longbeak does not forget. You are free.” 

She stood gazing at him, hardly comprehending what 
his words meant. 

“My men will convey you safely to the border of 
Virginia,” Longbeak continued. “Your home is not far 
distant.” 

Fanny Morgan sank on her knees before the Indian, 
who had now risen. 

“I thank you, great chief,” she answered. “Yet, in 
the forest one dear to me lies helpless and wounded. 
Save her instead.” 

Longbeak’s dark brows grew darker. 

“I owe you a life,” he repeated after a pause, “and 
my debt I repay to you. The woman did not save my 




RECOGNITION 179 

child; she stood by smiling. My obligation cannot be 
shifted about like a dead leaf in a windstorm.” 

“Do not qualify your mercy,” the girl pleaded. “It 
was not your life I saved, but that of one dear to you. 
Repay the debt in kind, if you will repay, and save her 
who is dearest to me.” 

The fierce eyes of the Indian shifted uneasily. For 
a moment he stood in deep thought, then turned to 
consult with his men. When again he spoke to her, he 
had recovered his cool determination. 

‘ ‘ It cannot be, ’ ’ he said. 1 ‘ To you I owe a life; that, 
I shall repay. The woman is the squaw of the man who 
brought death and sorrow into our land. To her, and 
to him and his people we can show no mercy. It is our 
oath.” 

“You mistake, chief,” cried the girl. “The man you 
seek is an enemy to her also, and would bring upon her 
the desolation he has wrought upon your people. He is 
a dog, and deserves no mercy.” 

“What?” questioned the chief. “Have I not seen 
them together on the foreign ship, with her hand in his ? 
And have not numbers of my people seen them together 
in the fields and about the grounds of their estate? 
Neither of them is unknown to us.” 

‘ ‘ It may be so, chief, ’ ’ Fanny replied. ‘ ‘ The man was 
her father’s servant, and often sought her company. But 
when his insolence could no longer be tolerated, he was 
driven from the plantation. It was thus that she won 
his enmity.” 

Longbeak eyed her sternly. 

“Is that the truth?” he asked. 

“I swear it, chief, by the honor of my father.” 

Once more he consulted with his men, then turned 

again to her. 

“Some of my people,” he said, “think that you are 
deceiving us, but I am going to believe what you tell me. 
From this moment the search for your mistress shall 


180 


UNDER THE SKIN 


cease. Yet, I shall investigate what yon say; and if you 
have deceived me, she shall be taken again though she 
took refuge in the governor’s palace at Williamsburg, 
and you shall be taken with her, and burnt inch by inch 
beside her.” 

“That will be but justice,” Fanny Morgan answered. 
“Yet he who would have justice should also give justice. 
Your countrymen bore my lady into the mountains, 
where she now lies helpless. Justice demands that they 
return her to her people.” 

“ So ? ” The Indian turned a searching eye upon her. 
11 And fall into the hands of our enemies ? It is a childish 
ruse, and you are daring to suggest it.” 

“It is not a ruse,” the girl replied. “The life of my 
mistress is in great peril unless help reach her early. 
For this your men are doubly responsible, and it is but 
justice that you undo the wrong as far as lies in your 
power. I promise you that no one who aids in restoring 
her to her people shall be molested. ’ ’ 

He studied her answer for a moment. 

“That is your promise,” he said. “Can you enforce 
it? Can you stay the white man’s hand when it is 
raised in its greed for blood, and revenge, and bar¬ 
barity ? ’ ’ 

Their eyes met and held each other, flinty and firm 
and earnest. 

‘ ‘ I am but a slave-girl, ’ ’ she conceded, ‘ * yet I have the 
confidence of my mistress, and can promise in her name. 
Her father has power to enforce his will; and her will 
is his. I am willing to remain in your hands for three 
days after my mistress has been restored to her home. 
That will give her rescuers time to return to you; and 
if a hand is raised against them, you may wreak your 
vengeance on me.” 

Minds that have lived close to nature do comprehend 
each other more fully than advanced civilization can 
understand. 


RECOGNITION 


181 


Longbeak turned with a satisfied grunt. 

“Come,” he said. “You have not learnt the treachery 
of the paleface. I accept your word.” 

She let him take her sore and stiffened arm, and lead 
her into his own boat. The rowers bent to their oars 
under the urgings of their leader, and Fanny Morgan 
forgot her own pain and exhaustion as she realized that 
she was taking aid to her mistress,—and from the most 
unlikely source. 

She was soon in animated conversation with the Indian, 
and learnt much of his history. Brother of the chief 
of his tribe, Longbeak had been selected for this mission 
partly on account of his prowess in war, and partly 
because, having traded extensively among the Virginians, 
he spoke their language fluently, and well knew both the 
habits and the country of the paleface. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


INDIAN FAITH. 

Beatrice Innisdale completed her cross of pebbles, and 
turned listlessly over. Around her stood a jabbering, 
gesticulating band of savages. Yet she was singularly 
unafraid. She had long anticipated just such an end. 
She waited with tired ennui for the final chapter. 

The crowd was thrust to right and left, and, from the 
rear, a slight, impetuous figure darted towards her, eyes 
rolling wide, and lips parted. It reached her side, and 
fell on its knees beside her. One stiffened arm reached 
about her. 

“Miss Betty, I have come.” 

11 Fanny ? ’’ 

“I have come for you, Miss Betty. These are my 
friends. They will take you home.” 

Miss Innisdale’s eyes drifted wanderingly over the 
surrounding group of painted savages. She closed them, 
and tried to rub away the mocking dream_ When once 
more she opened them, the vision was unchanged, except 
that the girl was muttering impossible things in her ear. 

11 Fanny, is it really you ? I dreamt you were dead. * 9 

“Not dead, Miss Betty. This is Chief Longbeak. You 
saw him on the boat at Innismount. It was his child we 
saved from the river,—you and I. He will save us in 
return. ’ 9 

She began to comprehend. She lifted a thin, quiver¬ 
ing hand to the Indian. 

“They thought you were the wife of that man,” Fanny 
continued, “—of Culberson,—that’s why they took 
you. They know now, and will undo the mischief as far 
as they can.” 


182 


INDIAN FAITH 


183 


Preparations for the departure were soon made. It 
had been necessary to leave the boats far down the small 
stream, but two Indians lifted Beatrice with the ease 
and tenderness of a mother lifting her infant, and 
marched off with her. Fanny Morgan and the leader 
followed close behind, while the rest of the men either 
marched ahead to select and clear the path of the bearers, 
or trooped behind. 

They reached the boats, and gently laid her in, then 
pushed off down the river once more,—towards home 
and friends. 

Rowing with the current, they made far better time, 
and early next day they reached the spot from which 
Fanny Morgan had been taken on the return up the 
river. Longbeak ordered the two extra boats ashore to 
await him: it was not necessary that the three should 
proceed to Virginia. 

The negress bent over her mistress, and kissed the pale 
lips. 

“You will be safe in their hands,” she whispered, 
“and they will take you to Innismount. See that they 
are not molested. I shall await them here, as a hostage 
to their safe return.” 

“What do you mean?” gasped Beatrice. “Remain 
here?—with them?” 

“I shall be safe,” answered the girl, “and I shall be 
free as soon as they return. I can, then, easily reach 
Virginia.’ ’ 

‘ ‘ We shall not be separated, ’ 9 said Miss Innisdale. ‘ 4 1 
shall not leave you in their hands. We have suffered 
together: we shall both perish or be saved.” 

“Be reasonable, Miss Betty,” Fanny pleaded. “I 
shall be perfectly safe, and it is the only means of your 
being rescued. It is not fair to expect these men to risk 
their own safety by putting themselves into the hands 
of your friends, without some surety that no harm come 
to them.” 


184 


UNDER THE SKIN 


Beatrice shook her head with cool determination. 

“I shall not leave yon here, Fanny,’’ she answered. 

‘ ‘ I could not sacrifice yon to win my own safety. If they 
cannot take us to Innismount, then let them leave us 
here, or at any other point along the river where they 
may think it safe to do so.” 

It was the Indian who came to the rescue. 

“We shall take you to your home,” he said, “and the 
promise of the dark woman shall be our only bond. Her 
word is more than that of any paleface.” 

“It shall be kept,” Beatrice answered. “I thank 
you.” 

The single boat sped down the river. In it were Miss 
Innisdale and Fanny Morgan, with Longbeak and 
three of his men. 

Two days later it pulled up beside the little quay at 
Innismount. The men lifted Beatrice gently, and started 
up the long walk that led to the house, the negress 
walking beside the bearers. 

They had covered half the distance when Aunt 
’Lizbeth, peeping out of the kitchen window, spied the 
procession. She uttered a shrill whoop, and darted down 
the passage, a frying-pan in one hand, while streaming 
tears mingled grotesquely with a broad grin across her 
happy face. Uncle Alec hobbled painfully behind with 
unexpected speed, while a group of domestics came 
running from every direction. 

The reception accorded the mistress and her favorite 
maid was entirely beyond description, and swept in the 
unemotional Indians as well. Colonel Innisdale was still 
out on his abortive quest, but Beatrice ordered for each 
of her guides a suitable reward, assured them of her 
unconditional friendship, and bade them depart. 

Then, on a couch near that on which her mistress had 
been laid and tended, grim anticlimax to her weeks of 
superhuman fortitude, Fanny Morgan sank, in a fever 
and delirium which for a fortnight kept her hovering 


INDIAN FAITH 


185 


on the borders of unconsciousness; while the best surgical 
skill that the county afforded was barely able to save her 
putrefying arms, and assure her eventual return to 
perfect health. 

It was four days later that Colonel Innisdale returned 
to learn of his daughter’s safety and the devotion of 
the negro girl. By that time, various interests had 
already prevailed upon the governor to authorize an 
expedition against the Indians. The company was, 
however, sent in another direction; and, while neither 
avenging nor discovering the young lady on whose behalf 
it was mainly despatched, met and signally defeated 
another band of Indians near the mouth of the Kanawha 
River, and put an end to the fear of further Indian 
trouble. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


A ZANDEY. 

“We are sisters in misfortune/’ Miss Innisdale had 
said to her maid in the wild Virginian mountains, and 
she was never to forget the words. 

So skilfully had her fractured leg been set, and so 
carefully had she been carried through the woods, that 
the doctors found it unnecessary to interrupt the work 
of healing so satisfactorily progressing; and by the time 
Fanny Morgan was able to leave her bed, Beatrice was 
also able to sit in the garden with her: and in their 
convalescence the two were still more closely drawn 
together. 

Beatrice, whose injury was less constitutional, herself 
directed the ministrations to the negress, and the 
attendants were instructed to treat her with the same 
attention they bestowed upon her mistress. 

Even Colonel Innisdale was not niggardly in his 
appreciation of the girl, and commended her devotion as 
strongly as he cursed the perfidy of Pompey, which had 
in the first place made the pursuit unavailing. On the 
suggestion of his daughter, the colonel promised the girl 
her freedom; but as any proposal for freeing a slave had 
to be passed upon by the Governor’s Council, and as 
various matters more weighty than the fate of a negro 
girl were at that time causing the council the gravest 
concern, the colonel’s application had to await its turn; 
and Fanny Morgan remained in name a slave. 

Walter Hogslip, who had shown marked depression at 
the girl’s disappearance, and who, on her return, had 
been told the entire story by Miss Crawford, soon 
obtained another opportunity of visiting her, and of once 

186 


A ZANDEY 


187 


more renewing his suit. But Fanny was as apprecia¬ 
tive of his company as on the former occasion, and just 
as unresponsive to his love-making. 

Once more on the road to recovery, the girl’s strength 
grew rapidly, and her renewed contentment, as well as 
a certain satisfaction she must have felt in the esteem 
of her mistress, and her own knowledge of having 
deserved it, aided appreciably in her restoration. 

With little to do, and complete freedom of action, she 
still spent most of her time in attendance upon her 
mistress. And when Beatrice, who was not yet able to 
remain long on her feet, would dismiss her to get some 
exercise and fresh air, she would generally go for a short 
walk through the woods, ending up with a stroll through 
the negro quarters, where she soon became a general 
favorite with the vari-colored throng of “pickaninnies” 
in whose games and pastimes she often took an active 
part. 

Late one afternoon she stopped to watch the games 
of her “little friends.” One little girl of perhaps three, 
who might have been white save for the jet-black mass' 
of curly hair too thick to be purely Caucasian, and the 
tell-tale tinge of color in her sparkling gray eyes, had 
always been a special favorite of hers, and was hurrying 
now to join her. A few paces away, the child tripped 
over an exposed root, and sprawled to the ground. 

Fanny hastened to lift the child, who lay on the ground 
crying. Her knee and elbow had been bruised in her 
fall, but Fanny wiped the dust from her face and hushed 
her tears. She enquired where the child lived, and, 
being shown, moved in that direction with the girl in her 
arm. 

The cabin she approached was at the more secluded 
end of the settlement, some distance removed from the 
others. It seemed in better repair, and consisted of two 
rooms, besides a kitchen of its own leaning against it. 

A woman met her at the door,—a thin, emaciated 


188 


UNDER THE SKIN 


creature who had not long before been a lovely mulatto 
girl. A six-month infant cooed in her arm, and her 
ragged skirt of gingham, finer than the other negroes 
wore, hung loosely on her slender frame-work of bones, 
as if, at the time when it had been fashioned, those bones 
had been rounded out by muscles since departed. 

“Ah, Miss Fanny,” she cried in a voice which the girl 
thought rich and sweet despite its quaint accent, not 
wholly English, yet an improvement on that of the 
average negro slave, “you’ve brung me my little Pearlie. 
Is she hurted?” 

“No,” Fanny answered with a reassuring smile; 
“merely bruised her knee and elbow in a fall. See, it 
is nothing. But Pearlie is my little friend, and I have 
brought her home.” 

“Thank you, Miss Fanny; you is wonderful kind,” 
said the woman. “But they do tell wonders ’bout you 
in the fields, and I is been always wanted to talk with 
you. Won’t you be pleased to come in and set yourself 
down ? ’ ’ 

She pushed back the door, and pointed with pride 
to two dilapidated wooden chairs, an adornment un¬ 
known in other negro quarters. Fanny selected the more 
substantial, and seated herself. 

“For just a minute,” she said. “I love Pearlie, and 
have always wanted to know her mother. You work in 
the fields, you say.” 

“Yes’m; since the new master’s come,” she answered 
with a trace of sadness in her voice. ‘ ‘ Befo ’ that, it was 
different. ’ ’ 

“Yet all the negroes speak of the new overseer as being 
more considerate than Culberson,” said Fanny. “Don’t 
you find him so?” 

“No’m; not by a long chalk,” answered the woman. 
“I is been have to work every day since my baby’s been 
a month old; which is what I is never been did since long 
befo’ my Pearlie was born.” 


A ZANDEY 


189 


“That, of course, is hard,” Fanny admitted, “though 
it is the custom. And you don’t look strong. Perhaps 
if I speak to the mistress she might get you something 
easier, and a little better attention. What is your 
name ? ’ ’ 

“Fidelia, ma’am. But please, don’t you never mention 
’bout it to the missis, though they do say she be most 
tender-hearted and kind. But I don’t wants her never 
to know nothing ’bout me.” 

“You don’t, Fidelia? Why? You must be mistaken 
about Miss Betty.” 

“No’m,” Fidelia answered; “but I is been warned. 
But I thanks you jist the same as if you is been and 
done it.” 

“That’s very queer of you,” said Fanny, “but since 
it is your wish, I shall, of course, do nothing.” She 
turned to the cooing infant, and pinched its dimpled 
chin. “What is the baby’s name?” she asked. 

“Astrodoffogel, ma’am,” Fidelia answered. “Isn’t it 
beautiful ? ’ ’ 

“The baby, yes; but not the name,” Fanny replied. 
“I think ‘Pearl’ much the nicer.” 

“Yes’m, ‘Pearl’ is nice, too,” said the mother. “Her 
father gave her that, but he was gone befo’ my Astro- 
doffogel was bom, so I had to give him a name of myself, 
and to fend for myself all along.” 

“Gone?” Fanny questioned eagerly. “Is he dead?” 

“No’m, not dead,” Fidelia answered. “The master 
sent him away. ’ ’ 

“Impossible,” Fanny disclaimed. “The master has 
not sold one of his slaves since I’ve been here.” 

“Sold? No, ma’am. But he was not no slave.” 

“I don’t understand you, Fidelia. What has become 
of your husband?” 

“Husband?” Fidelia exclaimed. “La, Miss Fanny, I 
is never have none. He wouldn’t have wed the likes 
o’ me, and he couldn’t ef he would.” 


190 


UNDER THE SKIN 


“A white man, eh?” Fanny guessed. “No wonder 
they trample us down, when they find us such simple 
creatures. Who was he?” 

“It is a name,” Fidelia replied, “which he charged 
me I ain’t never to repeat. But they all know, and I 
thought you did.” 

“And now he has forsaken you?” Fanny said. “It 
might have been expected.” 

“He couldn’t help it, Miss Fanny,” Fidelia defended. 
“The master drove him away.” 

“Drove him away?” Fanny re-echoed. “Then it 
could be no other than the white villain, Johnson 
Culberson.” 

She looked pleadingly at Fanny Morgan, without deny¬ 
ing her conjecture. 

“Ah, now you is done bex with me, Miss Fanny,” she 
said, “and ain’t never gwine to be kind to my little 
Pearl no mo’. Yet, what could I do?” 

“I am not condemning you, Fidelia,” Fanny replied. 

‘ ‘ But I am regretting the conditions which prevail among 
my sisters in servitude till they have become common¬ 
place. You know that in the land of your fathers and 
mine such things would not have been tolerated. Why 
should we, in an alien country, sell the only heritage of 
our freedom we may preserve, the only memory of our 
beloved country of which the white marauders cannot 
divest us,—our proud self-respect? When we have lost 
that, we have lost our entity as a people, lost our per¬ 
sonality of race, lost any chance we might have retained 
of ridding ourselves of the white man’s oppression. We 
have become but a producer of hybrid slaves for our 
masters, while we ourselves are moral as well as physical 
slaves, bestowing upon our offspring a curse which 
multiplies as it descends.” 

“Ah,” Fidelia sighed, “you don’t understand. There 
was a time when I was young and pure and good like 
you,—I is hardly older now. But I was not happy. I 



A ZANDEY 


191 


had to work,—oh, so hard. Then he saw me. He 
promised me the rest, the comforts, the things my heart 
craved; but I remembered the words of my mother, who 
had warned me of her own weakness, and I rejected all 
he offered. But he persisted. He gave me the hardest 
and most arduous tasks, and when I toiled till I was 
ready to drop, he gave me more,—with only one 
alternative. 

“Four times I was bound to the whipping-post on 
trumped-up charges, and the whipping-post,—ah, Miss 
Fanny, you don’t know what it is! The lash cut into 
my flesh like knives, and my blood poured to the earth. 
And still I resisted his demands. And then the fifth 
time I had reached the limit of my endurance. I had 
received ten lashes, and felt my life slipping out of my 
grasp. There were twenty lashes more to come. Twenty 
more, and—God! what should you have done; with rest, 
and immunity, and the promise o’ happiness within 
your grasp ?” 

A tear fell from her eye. She lifted the infant, and 
pressed its cheek against hers, as if to cool the fire that 
memory had rekindled. 

“I know,” Fanny Morgan answered tenderly. “I, 
too, was subjected to the same plot. I was bound to the 
whipping-post, and the alternative suggested. I knew 
it w r ould never end unless I ended it. I struck him on 
his vile mouth. I knew that meant death, and death 
meant everlasting immunity from all I feared.” 

“Ah, you,” said Fidelia, “is brave, and of the pure 
stock of our fore-fathers. I but followed in the foot¬ 
steps of my mother, for in my veins, too, trickles the 
water-white blood of our oppressors.” 

“And you, poor darling,” said Fanny, taking the 
smiling infant in her arms and kissing him tenderly, 
‘‘ how much harder will it be for you! What a heritage 
fate has bestowed upon you,—the weakness and evasive¬ 
ness of the negro, the bestial passions and selfish heart- 


192 


UNDER THE SKIN 


lessness of the white man, with none of the virtues of 
either! Will the world attribute your defects to the 
black or to the white that is in you?” 

Astrodoffogel gurgled a delighted answer, and Fanny 
handed him back to his mother. 

“I am not angry with you, Fidelia,” she said. “I 
know what you have suffered,—at least, in part. You 
chose the easiest, not the only, way. While I pity, I 
cannot condemn. I shall come to you again, and, for 
your sufferings, we shall be friends. The Light of my 
fathers shine upon you! ’ ’ 

“Ah, you is a Zandey,” said Fidelia. “But whatever 
you is, you is my sister, and I thank you.” 

“How did you guess I was Zandey?” Fanny asked. 

“There is a Zandey working in the field with us,” 
Fidelia answered. “He always talk ’bout Gumbah, the 
Great Light o’ the Niam-niam country.” 

“A Zandey?” Fanny asked eagerly. “What kind of 
a person is he, and how long has he been here ? ’ ’ 

“The master bought him with that last bunch o’ 
slaves, some three weeks back,” Fidelia replied. “He 
is a slight, well-built lad, a shade darker than you is, 
and his name is Sambo. I could have him meet you 
here some evening, if you’d care to.” 

“It will not be necessary, Fidelia, thank you,” she 
answered. “He would hardly be likely to know me, or 
anyone whom I know.” 

In that single minute, a hope had been born and 
crushed in her heart. She might be able to learn some 
word of her beloved country,—of her father, of her 
mother. And then she checked herself. This man was 
her subject;—had known her only as a princess. Could 
she now humble herself to appear before him as but one 
of a throng of negro slaves, not a whit better than 
himself? True, this was now the lot of both for ever. 
And yet, pride is but human nature sensitized. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


FROM THE DISTANT PAST. 

Fanny Morgan took a round-about way home. The 
single reference to her home-land had awakened in her 
mind thoughts which she preferred to ponder in solitude. 
It w T as not yet dark, but the droves of negro slaves had 
returned from the fields, and she skirted the outer border 
of their settlement rather than be accosted by any. 

It was the first time she had tried to avoid her brothers 
in servitude, for, though she had no intimate friend 
among them, she was a general favorite with all, both 
for the report of her services to her mistress, which had 
been spread broadcast, and for her attention to any of 
them who were ill or troubled. But now she sought 
solitude, deep in communion with those who had been 
dearest to her. 

Out of one of the tiny huts newly erected beside her 
path, a man came, softly strumming upon a crude, home¬ 
made guitar. She paid scant heed either to him or to 
his music, and he, absorbed in his song, glanced not 
at her. 

As he stood aside to let her pass, she turned an absent 
glance up to his face. A single word burst involun¬ 
tarily from her lips,—a cry of joy and of sorrow, of 
command and of appeal, a question and an answer: 

“Renjy! ” 

The man’s eyes met hers. The guitar fell from his 
hands, his rolling eyeballs seemed to bulge from their 
sockets, his entire frame quivered uncontrolled, and his 
brows oozed cold, heavy drops. He sank to the ground 
in a helpless mass. 

“Light of my fathers, shine upon me,” he cried in a 

193 


194 


UNDER THE SKIN 


tremulous moan, “and protect the Princess Ubaba. It 
is the spirit of my mistress.” 

“Rise, Renjy,” said Fannj^. “It is Ubaba herself. 
Tell me how you came here. 7 7 

The man covered his eyes, and continued his prayer. 
Fanny Morgan shook him back into sanity, and half 
lifted him to his feet. 

“Can you doubt my very self, Renjy?” she asked. 

‘ ‘ Am I, then, so changed ? ’ * 

“Is it really you, my mistress,—in the flesh?” Renjy 
asked, blinking fiercely. ‘ ‘ Can it be you ? Are you one 
of—of us?” 

“I am one of you, Renjy,—a slave,” Fanny replied, 
regaining her outward calmness. “How did you come 
to be here? Did harm come to—him? You did not 
return. 77 

The association of his last mission for his mistress with 
his present questioner seemed to convince Renjy that 
it was really Ubaba. Princess or ghost, it was meet 
that he should give some account of his sacred trust. 

“No harm could befall him, my lady,” he answered, 
“or I should not have lived to tell of it. I took him 
to the coast, and waited with him till he found a ship 
that would take him to his country. Then I was free, 
according to the word of my mistress. ’ 7 

“And you have not seen him since,—nor heard of 
him?” 

“Neither, my lady. But if this is really you, how 
come you here ? 7 7 

“ It is a long story , 7 7 she answered, ‘ ‘ which I shall tell 
you when we have more time. Briefly, I Avas kidnapped 
by Mabode savages while on my way from the sacred 
temple, and sold into slavery. But tell me of yourself. 
How came you to this land?” 

As she spoke, she moved towards a fallen log that lay 
beside the path, and seated herself. The young man 


FROM THE DISTANT PAST 195 

followed at a respectful distance, and remained standing 
before her. 

“Sit beside me, Renjy,” she invited, “and tell me all. 
I am no longer your mistress; may I not be your sister?” 

Renjy sat down on the ground before her,—a posture 
he might well have assumed in distant Kubanda. She 
waited for him to answer, but he remained silent, with 
eyes that still seemed to doubt whether or not they 
confronted a being of flesh and blood. 

“Won’t you tell me,” she repeated, “how you come to 
be in the white man’s country?” 

4 ‘ Oh, that, my lady ? That was nothing, ’ ’ he answered, 
chuckling as if with some pleasant memory. “I played 
the game in Zandey style, and lost. I might have won.” 

“What game, Renjy? I do not understand.” 

“You see, my lady,” Renjy answered, “after I left 
the coast on my return to Bakinji, I stopped in the Ibo 
country. There I met a maiden who, begging my lady’s 
pardon, might grace the mbanga of a prince. She was 
the daughter of a chief, and had been promised in 
marriage to the son of a neighboring chieftain; but the 
maiden loved me, and we decided on a secret flight to 
Kubanda. 

“Father and lover soon discovered the elopement, and 
followed hard on our heels. For ten days we evaded 
them, but when we were both on the verge of exhaustion 
from weariness and privations, we were overtaken. My 
darling was dragged from my arms, and I was sold to 
the slavers.” 

“I am sorry, Renjy,” the girl replied. “Had I not 
sent you to the coast, this would never have happened.” 

“Spare yourself, my lady,” said Renjy. “Your 
mission had nothing to do with it. The brave youths of 
Kubanda have ever sought their brides afar, and I had 
long resolved to seek a wife among the Ibo. Besides, 
does it not seem the working of Gumbah that you and 


196 


UNDER THE SKIN 


I should meet in this distant country? Would it not 
seem as if he intended me to serve you even here?” 

To the fatalistic mind of Fanny Morgan, the indeed 
remarkable coincidence seemed common-place. She 
answered with an impatient sigh, 

‘ ‘ Even the arms of the mighty Ntikkigama could avail 
me little here, Renjy; and you can do nothing. The 
only aid Ubaba expects will come when the Almighty 
Gumbah shall give her lasting sleep.” 

“You have not, I trust, my mistress, suffered severely 
at the hands of the white barbarians ? ’ ’ Renjy asked with 
deep concern. 

“Save only in spirit, Renjy, I have suffered less than 
many another,” the girl replied. “My mistress is very 
kind to me, and has promised me my freedom.” 

“You are to be freed, my lady?” 

“Freedom?” She laughed bitterly. “What can free¬ 
dom mean to me—here? Can they give me back the 
freedom that they stole? Can they give me back the 
years of happy childhood that are gone? Will they give 
me back the woods, the birds, the trees, the waters of 
beloved Kubanda? Will they nestle me once more in 
the bosom of Alali, and wrap around me the strong arms 
of Ntikkigama?” 

“Yet, my lady,” Renjy consoled, “if you are set free, 
with the governor’s seal, it may be possible for you to 
return to our country.” 

“It cannot be, dear Renjy,” she replied. “I have 
enquired into it, and it is impossible. Only the wealthy 
can go from here to England, whence the ships to our 
shores proceed; and did I even get there, I should not 
be half-way to our home. Should 1 even reach the 
Slave Coasts, it would be but to become once more a 
captive to the greed of the slavers.” 

“But, my mistress,” said Renjy, “could you reach 
England, it might be possible to find the white man 
whom you had befriended in Kubanda, and he-” 



/ 


FROM THE DISTANT PAST 197 

“Speak not of him, Renjy,” she answered with a 
sparkle in her eyes, though the dusky hue of her cheeks 
no less than the waning twilight hid the flush that was 
its natural concomitant. “Could I now go to him and 
sue for aid,—I, who was then the Princess of Kubanda ? ’ ’ 
She paused to collect her overmastering feelings. 
“Renjy,” she continued in a gentler tone, “only you 
know the heart of your mistress. You have my trust.” 

She rose from the log, and stretched out her hand 
in the English fashion. 

“Renjy, we shall meet often, and I shall be your sister. 
The Princess Ubaba is dead. My name is Fanny 
Morgan.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


IN QUEST OF REVENGE. 

Across the green, close-cropped lawn, like flutters of 
sun-kissed gold, streaked the sportive dart of the yellow¬ 
winged sparrow. From the tall hickory, clothed in the 
verdure of spring, a robin chirped querulously, till her 
mate fluttered back from beneath the clusters of jasmine 
and wistaria to a perch beside her, and pecked her 
shrewish head. The hum of bees silenced the gentle 
rustling of the leaves, and above the distant tree-tops 
rose the warble of the mocking-bird. 

The garden, too, spoke springtime. Lilies and dahlias, 
roses, chrysanthemums and daisies, sun-flowers, gerani¬ 
ums and pansies, with bursting buds, expanded petals 
or slowly drooping heads, rose everywhere in harmoni¬ 
ous contrast, with the wild enchantery of an Eastern 
garden, emitting a perfumery science has failed to 
imitate. 

The form of Eleanor Crawford, agile for all its increas¬ 
ing weight, bounded up the stairs. 

“Betty,” she called gleefully, “they are coming. I 
can see the boat.” 

Beatrice Innisdale drew a light shawl from the back 
of a chair, and, throwing it over her shoulders, joined 
her friend. At the door she paused, drew back, and, 
taking a bottle of scented water from a table, passed it 
to Miss Crawford. 

“Cool your cheeks,” she said with a smile; “you are 
as red as a basket of cranberries.” 

“I know, Bet,” Eleanor replied, hastily applying the 
remedy. “I can’t help it;—I’m so excited.” 

“You must be, dear,” Beatrice replied, “after such 

198 


IN QUEST OF REVENGE 199 

a long wait. I am almost as eager as you are. Come, 
we’ll go down to the pier.” 

Arm in arm, the two girls descended the stairs, and 
crossed the lawn. Beatrice walked without a limp, so 
completely had nature and a hardy constitution repaired 
her injured leg during the long winter months. Her 
form was still thin, but she had never been fleshy; her 
cheeks had recovered their accustomed tint, and the 
dreamy, far-away look her eyes had retained as the sol$ 
reminder of her weeks of hardship, had been banished 
on this long-anticipated day when her beloved brother 
would return from Oxford. 

Eleanor, restless as a caged panther, hurried her 
towards the river. 

“At last, eh, Bet? It seemed so long to wait.” 

“You are a brave girl, Nell,” Beatrice replied. “I 
could not have let my lover go for four long years. ’ ’ 

“It was hard,” Eleanor admitted, “but it was best 
for Ollie, and I would not stand in his way. Besides, 
it’s worth all my waiting to meet him now. Ah, here 
they come. There they are. That’s Ollie on the deck, 
and that must be Major Pressley beside him. Look; 
they see us: they are waving. Oh, Bet!-” 

She laughed semi-hysterically, and the two girls waved 
their tiny kerchiefs frantically, answered from the deck 
of the schooner. Colonel Innisdale, who had hurried 
down in their wake, joined in the ovation, waving his 
three-cornered beaver as feverishly as the girls their 
scraps of cambric. 

In a few minutes the boat was brought alongside the 
w T harf, and before the first rope could be securely 
fastened, Oliver Innisdale sprang ashore. With the 
strides of an Oxford half-back, he reached his sister’s 
side, the Englishman but a pace behind. For a second 
he pressed her to his bosom, kissing her on both cheeks. 

“Major Pressley, my sister,” he said with a curt bow; 



200 


UNDER THE SKIN 


then, in wilful self-mortification leaving the greatest 
gratification for the last, turned towards his father. 

It has ever been said that Virginian hospitality was 
unstudied, and lacked formality. Miss Innisdale held 
out her hand to the stranger, and her eyes smiled a 
welcome no language could express, as she said simply, 

“Major Pressley, you are welcome to Virginia.” 

The Englishman sank slowly till the knee of his red 
velvet breeches touched the earth. His head continued 
its gentle descent till his lips met the hand he still held 
firmly. Then, as slowly, he arose. 

“I thank you for the assurance, Miss Innisdale,” he 
answered. “None other could tender it so graciously.” 

Oliver had by this flitted from his father’s side to that 
of his sweetheart, yet neither found word to welcome the 
other. He took her outstretched hand, and bent his lips 
to it, then still stood holding it, each smiling silently, 
sheepishly at the other. 

As Pressley turned from Miss Innisdale, the colonel 
gripped his hand warmly. 

“Arthur Huntington Pressley,” he said with rugged, 
honest geniality, ‘ ‘ can need no introduction in the house 
of Matthew Innisdale, and no assurance of welcome. 
Boy, your father was my dearest friend. How is the 
old gray-head?” 

“Passing fine, Colonel, and ever mindful of you,” 
Pressley answered suavely, ‘ ‘ though the moors of Oxford¬ 
shire do not seem to carry the rejuvenescent vitality of 
the fresh Virginian forests. He commits me with a 
thousand assurances of his devotion,—and to you, also, 
Miss Innisdale.” 

Then, quickly imbibing the contagious spontaneity of 
Virginian society, he moved towards the silent, unparted 
lovers. 

“Permit me, Innisdale,” he said. “Miss Crawford, 
it has been the dream of countless anxious nights to 
greet you. I dare not meet you as a stranger.” 


201 


IN QUEST OF REVENGE 

He kissed her hand in a salutation as courtly as that 
he had tendered to Miss Innisdale. Then the genial 
colonel took command. 

“This way to the pantry, boys,” he called. “You’ve 
had a long, dry voyage;—I know how dry salt water is. 
The larder of Innismount is not yet empty.” 

The party moved off towards the mansion, Beatrice, 
with her father on one arm and the Englishman on the 
other, leading the way, while the young lovers, who had 
at last found their tongues, lingered in the rear. 

The repast which lay awaiting the travellers under the 
supervision of Uncle Alec and his bride, had been pro¬ 
vided with that profusion which ever marked the 
Virginian mansion, and the superb cooking of Aunt 
’Lizbeth, no less than the faultless service of the aged 
butler, tempted the appetites of the diners. The con¬ 
versation was common-place and informal, and the 
Englishman had ample time to study his surroundings, 
and, in turn, to be studied by those who had not seen 
him before. 

lie was a man of perhaps thirty, though the heavy 
tan on his open features might have hidden another year 
or two. His keen, honest eyes seemed to hold those upon 
whom it rested, and his voice had a strong, silvery crisp¬ 
ness, as if made to command; yet when it sank lower, 
it could be pleading and tender as a woman’s. 

Slightly above the average in height, his firm, well- 
proportioned figure was rounded out by carefully 
developed muscles, without an ounce of useless fat. He 
gave the impression of uncommon physical endurance, 
strong determination, and an honest, open heart. 

“I had been hoping,” said Colonel Innisdale, who 
kept the conversation running from topic to topic in his 
own hurried manner, ‘ ‘ that your father might have been 
induced to take the trip out with you, but I could not 
influence him.” 

“Father thinks he is too old for any such long voyage,” 




202 


UNDER THE SKIN 


Pressley replied. “Besides, you know, Colonel, he has 
not been quite himself for some years.” 

“So I heard,” nodded the colonel. “He wrote me of 
his loss. Still, his remaining to brood over the spot only 
makes the matter worse.” 

“So his friends have told him,” Pressley returned, 
“but father is not to be influenced. Even an extended 
trip to London or the continent would be beneficial. ’ ’ 

“I understand his position,” said Innisdale with an 
eye that seemed to look back into his own past. “When 
two have lived together so long and happily, separation 
comes hard. ’ ’ 

“True, Colonel. Yet it was not the death of my 
mother, sad as that must have been to him, that affected 
father most. It was the cowardly murder of my brother 
that broke the hearts of both.” 

“Murder?” gasped Innisdale. “I understood your 
brother was shot in a duel.” 

Pressley did not reply immediately. The pause gave 
him time almost completely to eliminate the bitterness 
from his voice. When he spoke, it was with a pathetic 
softness and a bare trace of emotion. 

“Colonel Innisdale,” he said, “you are my father’s 
friend, and a man of honor. The affair had a determin¬ 
ing influence in my visiting America at this time, and I 
shall give you the facts. 

“My brother, insulted by one he thought a gentleman, 
was the challenger, and the other, reputed one of the 
best swordsmen in Europe, nevertheless selected pistols 
as the weapons. They met at the appointed spot early 
one morning, accompanied by their seconds and a 
surgeon. Back to back they stood, fifteen paces apart. 
The surgeon was to count three, then the men were to 
turn and fire. That is according to the rules of honor. 

‘ ‘ All was ready. ‘ One ’ the referee counted, and before 
the word had died on his lips, there was the crack of a 


IN QUEST OF REVENGE 203 

pistol, and my brother fell with a bullet that had passed 
between his shoulder blades and through his lung. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ A dastardly and treacherous act, ’ ’ cried Innisdale in 
horror. “Has an Englishman fallen so low? Who was 
the coward ? ” 

“Franklyn Everleigh,” Pressley answered, “younger 
son of Lord Caulfield.” 

4 ‘ I knew the old lord in his younger days, ’ ’ said Innis¬ 
dale. ‘ ‘ I did not think it was in the Everleigh blood.’ ’ 

“Young Everleigh fled,” the Englishman continued, 
“and his father did not survive the disgrace. His elder 
son, who succeeded to the title, is prematurely aged, and 
has never taken his seat in the House.” 

“And the younger?” Innisdale asked. 

“I was abroad at the time,” said Pressley, “and when 
I returned to England and learned the facts, I vowed 
to avenge my brother’s death. I sought trace of Ever¬ 
leigh through England and Scotland, and at length 
obtained information which led me to believe that he 
is at present in Virginia. It is his trail that I still 
follow. ’ ’ 

Miss Innisdale, who had been an attentive listener, 
for the first time interrupted. 

“Major Pressley,” she said in her soft, persuasive 
tone, “don’t you think this butchery of Englishmen by 
Englishmen, this illusive thirst for blood under the name 
of vengeance, a lamentable thing? You would pursue 
young Everleigh and have his blood. Do you believe 
that single passing pang of pain in any way comparable 
with the suffering your victim now endures, housed with 
his own cowardly conscience, driven from home and 
friends, a nameless outcast among strangers, with the 
mark of Cain branded on his heart ? ’ ’ 

“Yet, Miss Innisdale,” Pressley answered with defer¬ 
ence, “some men are utterly devoid of a working con¬ 
science, and such I believe Everleigh to be. Besides, as 
Colonel Innisdale will tell you, there is a certain code 


204 


UNDER THE SKIN 


of honor prescribed, from which I cannot deviate with¬ 
out incurring scorn. Remember, my brother’s death has 
made me my father’s heir.” 

“I understand all that,” Beatrice answered. "‘And 
where honor,—real honor,—is concerned, I could bid you 
God’s speed. But this thirst for vengeance can only 
be a perversion of honor. ’ ’ 

“I do not believe that Everleigh is in Virginia,” said 
Innisdale, interrupting the turn which the conversation 
had taken, lest his daughter’s words should offend the 
stranger. “I know all the respectable families in the 
colony, and I am sure the young man is not among 
them. ’ ’ 

“He would hardly be living under his own name,” 
said Pressley, “and it is only on a description of him 
that I must depend. I remember him well, and shall 
not be deceived if we ever meet. He must now be about 
thirty-five. He would be a couple of inches taller than 
I am, and a good deal heavier, though, with his long 
military training, he mightn’t show it. His hair is 
black, and there is a habitual fierceness in the uncertain 
coloring of his eyes. Nevertheless, his features are con¬ 
sidered handsome, and in London he is still spoken of as 
having been ‘a kind of a devil with women.’ ” 

A shadow darted across the brows of Miss Innisdale, 
and she shot a quick glance at her father. The colonel 
was, however, too busy trying to put the abstract descrip¬ 
tion into concrete form to notice her, and her momentary 
hesitation passed. 

“Forget your enmity, Major Pressley,” she said 
cheerily. “Doesn’t this glorious sunshine make you feel 
like loving your deadliest foe? How like you our 
Virginian vintage?” 

She pointed to his glass, which he had so long neg¬ 
lected, and lifted her own. 

Pressley raised his glass to her, then emptied it. 

“It is excellent liquor,” he answered, smiling, “and 


205 


IN QUEST OF REVENGE 

, Virginia is indeed a land of surprises. I should have 
sworn the grapes from which this wine was made had 
grown on the banks of the Garonne.’’ 

“And you wouldn’t be wrong,” Beatrice replied, 
laughing merrily in her turn. “Yet, we do have a 
vintage of our own. Alec, let Major Pressley have a 
glass of our home-made wine.” 

Only the choicest imported liquors had, however, been 
brought in for the visitor, and the butler found it 
necessary to summon one of the servants to bring the 
native wine. In another instant, Fanny Morgan entered 
with the desired beverage. 

“Bring it here, Fanny,” Miss Innisdale called as the 
girl approached the aged butler. “Fill up Major 
Pressley’s glass.” 

Pressley glanced up at the new servitor, and, at the 
same instant, the bottle, slipping through the girl’s 
fingers, crashed to the floor. 

Colonel Innisdale darted around with an angry growl. 

“You bungling-” 

He did not finish the invective, but whether out of 
respect to the stranger, from sympathy for the offender, 
or in answer to his daughter’s reproachful eyes^ was not 
clear. The girl made no apology. Her face was averted 
as she hastily gathered up the fragments of glass, then 
silently she left the room. A minute later another bottle 
of home-made wine was brought in, but by another 
servant. 

Pressley commended the liquor, and, dinner com¬ 
pleted, Beatrice suggested a walk over the grounds. 
Oliver and his sweetheart readily assented, and the four 
moved away. 

They were descending the short flight of stairs that 
led from the wide verandah, when Miss Innisdale’s sharp 
eyes detected the figure of Fanny Morgan crouched 
behind the oleanders at one angle of the house. Tearing 



206 UNDER THE SKIN 

herself from her companions, she hurried towards the 
girl. 

‘ ‘ Why, what’s the matter, Fanny ? ’ ’ she asked eagerly, 
noting the girl’s drooping head. “Are you ill?” 

Slowly the head rose towards her, and in eyes and 
voice that, through all their vicissitudes together, had 
never evinced emotion, Beatrice detected a tear. 

“No, Miss Betty, I’m not ill.” 

“Nonsense, child.” Beatrice laughed encouragingly. 
“Are you fretting about that bottle of cheap wine? 
Forget it, dear. I shouldn’t let an} r one scold you if you 
had broken a hundred bottles of the best French. You’re 
worth more than that to me.” 

“Thank you, Miss Betty,” the girl answered. “It’s 
very kind of you. ’ ’ 

“There now. Run into the house, and help Aunt 
’Lizbeth straighten things. Major and Mrs. Crawford 
are to be here for supper, with a few other friends.” 

She moved off slowly to rejoin her companions, but 
the girl’s call halted her. 

“Miss Betty, does the white woman keep her word?” 

“Of course she does, Fanny,” Beatrice answered. 
“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing, ma’am. Only, now that your brother and 
his friends are here, they may wish to hear of your 
adventures in the mountains, and you might forget and 
mention the things I told you.” 

“I shall not forget, Fanny. I promised you not to 
repeat your story till you say I may. The white woman 
keeps her word.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


A GLOOMY OUTLOOK. 

The next few weeks were gay days at Innismount. 
The best families in three counties hastened to welcome 
Oliver, and to invite the English stranger to share their 
hospitality. Long rides over the rugged country roads, 
picnic parties up the brown, sluggish river, lazy strolls 
through the woods, and two fox-hunts filled up the days, 
while the nights were devoted to parties, dinners, balls 
and receptions in unending sequence. 

The complicated problems of Colonial government, cen¬ 
tring principally around Boston, but affecting the entire 
Atlantic sea-board of the American continent, kept 
Colonel Innisdale at Williamsburg except on special 
occasions; while the engrossment of Eleanor and Oliver 
in each other threw almost the entire entertainment of 
Pressley upon Miss Innisdale. 

Actuated only by a desire to maintain the reputation 
for hospitality which the colonial plantations had won, 
the girl undertook the task whole-heartedly; and the 
keen perception and ready adaptability of the English¬ 
man soon made the duty doubly pleasurable. Pressley, 
accustomed to the studied conventionality then practised 
among the beauties of England, was struck by the frank 
informality of his hostess, and accepted the spontaneity 
of her character with the eclat of a school-boy. It is not 
surprising, therefore, that in a short time a friendship 
should have ripened between the two as idyllic as it 
was real. 

It would be unjust to Miss Innisdale to assume that 
such a condition was the natural result of their enforced 
association. It was by slow degrees, despite the short- 

207 


208 


UNDER THE SKIN 


ness of time, that she read into the inner mind of her 
companion, saw his lofty ideals, his unfailing love for 
justice, his tenacity to principle, his unaffected simplicity 
of heart. These were qualities that warmed her heart 
towards him. 

Not that their thoughts often ran in the same channels, 
nor even that their opinions always agreed. This was 
practically impossible, considering that the one had been 
born and bred on a Virginian plantation, her child¬ 
hood companions negro slaves, her friends in maidenhood 
the half-dozen youths of her age within a twenty-mile 
radius, and her knowledge of city life gathered from a 
few business visits to Williamsburg, then a village of 
some fifty houses; while the other had romped with 
future dukes and earls, had danced with bejewelled 
dames and spangled countesses, was as much at home in 
the piazzas of Rome as in the mansions of Whitehall or 
Picadilly, and had travelled over three-quarters of the 
globe. And, where their opinions differed, they often 
had spirited debates; for the argument was an indigenous 
product of the free Virginian soil. But, whether or not 
they failed to convince each other, the invariable out¬ 
come of the discussion was a clearer understanding and 
a higher opinion each of the other. 

On the other hand, Colonel Innisdale, on the infrequent 
occasions when he was permitted to dine at home, plied 
the stranger with questions bearing on the matter nearest 
to his heart. 

‘‘What are the people of England doing with regard 
to the high-handed actions of North in relation to the 
American colonies?” he asked at the first opportunity. 

“To be perfectly frank, Colonel Innisdale,” Pressley 
answered, “the people of England are doing nothing. 
They are not aware of the pass to which matters have 
come.” 

“So?” sighed the colonel. “The people of Lisbon, 
too, slept on the eve of the earthquake.” 


A GLOOMY OUTLOOK 


209 


True, Colonel; yet in neither case are the bulk of the 
people entirely to blame for their want of foresight, ” 
Pressley replied. ‘‘For some dozen years these under¬ 
ground rumblings have sounded from the Americas, but 
the government have ever had enough sense to back down 
in time to prevent the cataclysm. Those who should 
naturally interest themselves in the matter are too busy 
buying and selling privileges: the ordinary Englishman 
may be excused if he snores in peace after having paid 
his rent, and washed down his bacon with a copious 
draught of home-brewed ale, refusing to be scared by 
sounds which do not alarm his betters.” 

“You think, then, that Lord North will eventually 
advise His Majesty to rescind his position?” Innisdale 
asked. 

“ It is the only logical assumption, ’ ’ Pressley answered 
thoughtfully, “yet it seems that the government have 
now gone too far to withdraw with honor. But what 
other course is possible ? Certainly the people of 
England would never countenance a war upon their 
brothers in America. The Minister for War has pointed 
out the impracticability, as well as the uselessness, of 
sending troops to America. Grafton himself has ad¬ 
mitted that collecting the tea-tax costs a hundred times 
as much as it could possibly bring. Lord Dartmouth, 
Secretary of State for the Colonies, a man who holds 
the confidence and esteem of every Englishman at home 
or abroad, is unalterably opposed to force. Sir Thomas 
Pownall, who knows Massachusetts better than any other 
man in parliament, has shown that all the king’s horses 
and all the king’s men cannot compel the people of 
Boston to drink taxed tea. What, then, can North do 
but revise his stand?” 

“And what of the opposition?” exclaimed the colonel. 
“Are there no whigs in England?” 

“There is one man in England who could lead the 
opposition to success,” Pressley replied. “Propped up 


210 


UNDER THE SKIN 


in an invalid ’s chair, his dimming eyes behold the mighty 
empire he had built in three continents tottering to the 
mischievous experiments of the unthinking gang at 
Westminster. What the hate of his king, the jealousy 
of his rivals, and the swords of his enemies could not 
accomplish, disease and age have done for William Pitt.” 

1 ‘ But Rockingham leads the party, doesn’t he ? ” Innis- 
dale enquired. 

“The mantle of Pitt does not fit Rockingham,” said 
Pressley. “His lordship certainly does his humble best, 
but he has not the grasp, the foresight, nor the dynamic 
personality of the great empire-builder.” 

“Burke, then,” the colonel suggested. “Much was 
expected of him.” 

“Edmund Burke,” Pressley answered, “would seem 
to be the natural leader of the opposition, and it is not 
impossible that he could recover for his party some of the 
spirit which bore Chatham along. But he is too sensitive 
of his own obscurity of birth, and will not attempt to 
lead noblemen who, should he make the experiment, 
might be willing to follow. Burke, undoubtedly, has the 
best grasp of the situation, the clearest vision, and the 
least to lose by opposing the king. If he has one defect, 
it is that he is too polished an orator to be a convincing 
debater. ’ ’ 

“You call that a defect, Pressley?” gasped the colonel. 
“It was the oratory of William Pitt that carried him 
through parliament.” 

‘ ‘ True, Colonel. But the oratory of Burke soothes the 
ear where the words of Pitt jar the nerves. At Oxford or 
Cambridge, Burke would, doubtless, be considered the 
finer of the two; but the common rabble would jump up 
to a man at Pitt’s voice, while trying in vain to com¬ 
prehend Burke’s meaning. The great leaders of the 
world were men who could say sharp, pointed things; 
not those who could turn out carefulty-fabricated meta¬ 
phors and euphonious similes. From Alexander the 


A GLOOMY OUTLOOK 211 

Great to our own Noll, not a world-maker was a polished 
orator; and from Demosthenes to Edmund Burke, no 
polished orator has accomplished anything but just talk.” 

“You forget Caesar, Major Pressley,’’ said Beatrice, 
who had till now been a silent listener. “There you 
have the perfect combination.” 

‘ ‘ I beg your pardon, Miss Innisdale, ’ ’ Pressley replied, 
“I should not consider Caesar a polished orator. The 
old Roman was somewhat after the order of Lord Chat¬ 
ham,—concise and to the point.” 

“We shall reserve that as one of the topics for our 
daily quarrels,” Beatrice laughed. “At present I must 
not disturb you. Who else is there to whom the colonists 
may cry?” 

“There is no leader to oppose North and the king,” 
said Pressley. “Burke is the best bet, but for his 
diffidence. Lord George Germaine, who has been men¬ 
tioned several times, is half-hearted,—neither whig nor 
tory. Yet, in the bulk of the party are many honest 
men who understand the colonists’ claim, and hold out 
on their behalf,—Camden, Wilkes, Glynne, Phipps,— 
indeed, all who have nothing to lose by offending the 
sovereign. Yet their humbler voices cannot reach the 
ears of His Majesty, who, the reports say, is personally 
bent on the humiliation of the colonists, as much to 
rebuke and repudiate the policy of Pitt as to gratify his 
own vanity and justify his stand. If an amicable settle¬ 
ment is to be reached, either the king and North must 
completely reverse every attitude they have taken, or 
else the colonists must meekly submit to every indignity, 
and forever relinquish every claim to British freedom.” 

“Then it means the shedding of blood,” groaned Innis¬ 
dale, “of British blood by British swords. Alas that 
I should live to see the day when Virginia, the most 
loyal of the colonies, should draw sword to oppose the 
officers of her own sovereign ! But there is no alternative. 
We cannot stand by and see Massachusetts whipped like 


212 


UNDER THE SKIN 


a naughty child when we are guilty of the same crimes 
as she, and deserve whatever castigation she merits. ’ * 

“Is that the decision of the burgesses?” Pressley 
asked. 

“ It is the decision of the burgesses, ’ ’ Innisdale replied. 
“We have voted to support Massachusetts unreservedly 
in her stand against injustice.” 

“That is a wise step,” said the Englishman. “His 
Majesty can hardly proceed in his heedless policy when 
he understands that all his American subjects are united 
in opposition, and that he has not the support of the 
British workingman. ’ ’ 

“Yet you say the ordinary Englishman is not in¬ 
terested in the colonies, and does not care what happens 
to them.” 

“I beg your pardon, Colonel,” Pressley corrected. 
“What I said was that they are not awake to the facts. 
How could they be? Very few of them have corre¬ 
spondents in the colonies to keep them posted, and even 
these receive their year-old letters with the chief portions 
deleted by the king’s minions, if, indeed, the letters are 
ever delivered. The newspapers barely hint at the 
subject, and, generally, in parables that are unintelligible 
except to the most erudite. The efforts of Dr. Franklyn, 
it is true, have shed some little light on the subject, but 
North and his associates have in every way tried to dis¬ 
credit his story. Yet, wherever the truth is fully known, 
the English workingman is whole-heartedly in sympathy 
with his colonial brothers. The action of Virginia may 
awaken England, and North be forced to heed its 
protest.” 

“God grant it be so,” sighed Innisdale. “Against 
the Frenchman or the Indian, the Britisher, be he in 
England or in the colonies, has ever a ready sword; but 

against his own countrymen-God grant that the day 

dawn not ! 9 7 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 


AWAKE TO LOVE. 

“Hang it, Pressley! What are yon trying to do? 
Throw off?” 

“No, Colonel; honest, I’m not. But you seem to be 
at your best this evening. ’ ’ 

Colonel Innisdale chuckled heartily at his success. 

He had arrived from Williamsburg that evening, had 
hurried through supper, and had challenged the young 
Englishman to an evening of checkers. It was a game 
of which he was exceedingly fond, and when he dis¬ 
covered that his visitor was a player of no mean ability, 
he grasped at every opportunity to indulge in his favorite 
pastime. 

Three times before, they had contended; and on each 
occasion they had about broken even: yet, here it was, 
the colonel had won the third successive game. 

The draughts were rearranged for the fourth. Rous¬ 
ing himself to his danger, Pressley secured a draw, but 
Innisdale swept the board in the fifth. 

* ‘ Call it an evening, ’ ’ said the colonel magnanimously. 
“You are not at your best to-night. Still, if you think 
you can have your revenge-” 

“I am, indeed, no match for you to-night, Colonel,” 
Pressley admitted. “But I can stand a deal more 
punishment, if you care to proceed.” 

“Another time,” Innisdale replied. “It is a game 
which requires all your attention, and I can see that 
something else is troubling you. If it is a matter in 
which I-” 

Pressley started violently, and a surge of blood dyed 
his features a deeper tan. 


213 




214 


UNDER THE SKIN 


“No,—nothing, Colonel,” he stammered hastily. “I 
—I had nothing in mind but the game.” 

“I beg your pardon, Major,” said Innisdale with a 
touch of the hasty haughtiness that had almost become 
habitual w 7 ith him in spite of his better nature. ‘ ‘ I meant 
you no offence.” 

The tinge of temper was not lost to the young man, 
and he knew that he had betrayed himself. Frankness 
seemed the only remedy. 

“I am sorry I said that, Colonel,” he answered, 
“because I do have something in mind, and something 
that I wished to say to you at a fitting time; but you 
took me off my guard. I’m very sorry.” 

‘ ‘ Don’t mention it, boy, ’ ’ said the honest colonel good- 
naturedly. “I’ve caught myself doing the same thing 
sometimes,—saying something in a hurry, and regretting 
it for hours afterwards. The present time is ever the 
most fitting, and I am always at your service.” 

“Yet, Colonel,” said Pressley with a forced smile, 
“with such a bad beginning, it is difficult to proceed. 
You have known me only a couple of months, and during 
that period, you have been forced to spend most of your 
time away from home. But you were my father’s friend, 
and you know what the name of Pressley means.” 

“Clean, boy; clean all through,” answered Innisdale 
encouragingly. “You need no better guaranty, for there 
is none.” 

“I thank you, Colonel,” Pressley replied, recovering 
his accustomed confidence. “The days I have spent at 
Innismount have been the happiest of my life, and for 
this I am wholly indebted to the amiability and thought¬ 
fulness of Miss Innisdale.” 

“She is a good girl, Pressley; a wonderful girl,” said 
Innisdale effusively. “There is no better in all Virginia, 
if it is her father who says it. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I have realized it, Colonel, ’ ’ the young man answered, 
“and I have realized, too, that my own happiness is 


AWAKE TO LOVE 215 

inseparably wound up in her. May I have your per¬ 
mission to speak to her on the subject?” 

“Why, Pressley, why, confound it, I-” 

Innisdale bit off the incoherent succession of words 
that had been startled from him. For a long minute 
he sat mute, looking steadily at the young man with 
filmed eyes that did not see him, that seemed to delve 
back into distant years and other scenes. At length he 
woke up. 

“Hang it, boy; I’m a selfish old man now,” he said 
wdtli deep emotion, ‘ ‘ and it had ever been my hope that 
Betty should never be taken from my arms till she had 
laid me in my coffin. But I must not stand in the way 
of my child’s happiness. I suppose it must some day 
come to this; and if it must, I could wish her no better 
than the son of Alexander Pressley.” 

“I thank you for your confidence, Colonel,” Pressley 
replied. “You shall never think it was misplaced.” 

“Have you spoken of the matter to my daughter?” 
Innisdale asked. 

“On my honor, Colonel, I dared not so much as hint 
my feelings to her till I had learnt your will,” said 
Pressley, “and I cannot believe she has guessed my 
thoughts.” 

“Then the matter is for you two to decide. I shall 
not urge her heart. Be kind to her, Pressley. She is 
tender as a bud, and clinging as a vine, but she is proud 
as a queen,—the image of her darling mother.—Run 
away now, boy. You have taken all I had. Leave an 
old man the dreams you have awakened.” 

Pressley slid from the room, his head and heart awhirl 
with expectancy, leaving the old man with dreamy eyes 
fixed on the vacant wall. 

He glanced at the clock as he passed through the long 
hall. It was barely eight. From the distant parlor came 
the sounds of gay chatter and laughter, interrupted at 



216 


UNDER THE SKIN 


intervals by the disconnected strumming of a harp. He 
hastened in that direction. 

“Ah, Major Pressley, I’m so glad you have come, ,, 
cried Beatrice in unaffected delight as he entered. 
“Those two”—she pointed an accusing finger at Miss 
Crawford and Oliver—“have been so engrossed in each 
other that I have been left severely alone with this old 
harp, which I’m afraid to play lest I disturb them.” 

“Now, Betty,” Eleanor contradicted laughingly, “you 
know that is not so. Why, Major Pressley, she monop¬ 
olized Ollie entirely, and I was hardly able to get in a 
word edgewise.” 

“Three is always an unsatisfactory number for a 
party,” Pressley replied. “That’s why I ran away from 
the colonel so early. But I’m surprised that you sit 
cooped up in the house on an evening like this. The 
moon casts a beam that rivals daylight, a million stars 
strive to assist her, and the garden "wafts in an invitation 
I cannot decline. Shall we accept?” 

Beatrice laid down her harp, and slipped her arm 
into his. They tripped lightly down the stairs, and 
reached the garden gate. Behind them, Eleanor fol¬ 
lowed on Oliver’s arm. 

“The garden or the lawn?” Beatrice asked, looking 
up for direction. 

“The garden, please, if it’s all the same to you,” he 
answered. “I never could resist the fragrance of the 
night-blooming jasmine.” 

He found a seat for her in one of the garden benches, 
already damp with dew, and sank beside her. She caught 
a cluster of rose-buds in her hand, and pressed it gently 
to her lips, without breaking the stem. 

“You love roses,” he said. 

“I love flowers, and trees, and nature,” she answered, 
—“all that is pretty and sweet and good.” 

“That is selfish,” he chided tenderly. “Can’t you 
love -what is not like you?” 


AWAKE TO LOVE 


217 


She turned large, wondering eyes up to him. In the 
soft moonlight, she looked ineffably sweet,—her rich, 
black hair, blacker in the shade, fanned by a stray 
flutter of air, her cheeks laved by a light that threw out 
their loveliest tint, her eyes sparkling with animated 
interest. 

“Don’t you love them too?” she asked. 

“I do,” he answered, as he tried to stifle his labored 
breathing. “I love them all, but more than them, I 
love you.” 

“That’s very nice of you, Major Pressley,” she replied, 
laughing. “You do say pretty things.” 

Her words came glibly, innocently, as from a prattling 
babe. Pressley knew she did not understand, did not 
realize, what he meant. He took her hand in his. 

“Miss Innisdale,” he said, “I have your father’s per¬ 
mission to tell you that you are all the world to me; 
that you have made my life inexpressibly happy, and 
that I want you to share that happiness with me. I love 
you, dear, as only one man can ever love you; as I can 
love no other. Can you, too, care for me?” 

She had been gazing up into his face in childlike 
innocence. Suddenly the smile died out of her eyes, and 
a troubled look darted across her brows. Her hand slid 
out of his, but it was an involuntary movement. 

“Can you care for me, dearest?” he bent low to 
whisper as she remained silent. ‘ ‘ I shall fill up your life 
with sunshine, and roses, and love. We shall be two 
happy children together, and our only rivalry will be 
to see which can make the other happier.” 

She seemed to shudder slightly, but still she did not 
speak. His arm moved round her waist, and drew her 
nearer up to him. She offered no protest. He bent 
his eyes to the level of her drooping lids. 

“Sweetheart, say you can care. Tell me you will be 
mine, and make my paradise complete. My soul has 


218 


UNDER THE SKIN 


hungered for you, dear, since first we met. Now I know 
I cannot live without you.” 

Her head fell gently against his bosom to his touch. 
Her eyes closed, and her breath hissed audibly. 

1 ‘1 shall live only for you, darling, ’ ’ his voice continued 
tremulously, “and in your hands I shall be whatever 
you may wish. No sorrow will ever touch your fair 
brow, sweet; no unhappiness mar your life. Give me 
the right to smooth a path for you, to clasp you to my 
heart and shield you from the world. My love, say 
you ’ll be mine. ’ ’ 

She felt the quick and rhythmic pulsing of his bosom, 
cradling her to rest. A sharp pang, as of anguish, rent 
her heart. She felt her life slipping out of her grasp,— 
away, away. She clutched agonizingly at it. It was 
gone. Something clogged her throat: she grasped for 
breath, and a sigh slipped from her lips. For, in that 
moment love was born;—born with a rending, tortur¬ 
ous pang of anguish that left her unutterably happy. 

Her eyes rose slowly up to his,—eyes that were no 
longer proud and haughty, but humbled and subdued 
and helpless. 

He read their meek submission, their pleading tender¬ 
ness. His head descended towards her. Their lips met. 
He clasped her to his heart. . . . 

The trite inanities which lovers say seem common¬ 
place when reproduced. The things which Eve whispered 
to Adam under the old apple tree are the very things 
Cleopatra murmured to Anthony on the banks of the 
Nile, and Mary Smith muttered to John Jones out by 
the back gate. Yet each has contrived to utter them 
with an originality that made them entirely hers; and 
now, as Beatrice repeated the age-old thoughts and asked 
the age-old questions, she was fully conscious that no 
woman before her in all the world had ever felt the 
happiness she experienced, or spoken the words she 


AWAKE TO LOVE 


219 


whispered up to him. And in this, she was not mistaken. 

It was a painful reminder that there was another 
world than theirs when, from behind a distant rose-bush, 
Oliver’s discordant call awakened them. 

“Pressley,—it’s after eleven, and Nell feels chilly. 
I’m taking her into the house.” 

Beatrice rose at her lover’s touch, a lioness tamed, an 
antelope domesticated. She must have walked up the 
stairs, for next day she could not remember having 
been carried. But she could remember that, at the door 
to her room, a warm lip had been pressed to hers, 
and all the windows of heaven had been opened, and a 
million choirs of angels had simultaneously struck their 
golden harps with the most enchanting melody that 
mortal ever heard,—and then she had found herself in 
bed. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


THE END OF A PERFECT DAY. 

It was a cruel coincidence that Pressley had promised 
to spend the following day in the woods with Oliver 
and three other young men, shooting grouse and 
partridge and wild turkey. His companions arrived 
early, and when, for the first time that day, he met 
Beatrice at the breakfast table, her eyes sparkling and 
her cheeks almost as florid as Eleanor’s, he could only 
smile happily at her, and press her hand. 

She accompanied him to the door, and to his mount, 
when the meal was ended, and pinned upon his coat 
the loveliest carnation her garden afforded. And when 
again he pressed her hand, he was bold enough to raise 
it to his lips. 

She watched him till his disappearing figure was lost 
to view, then, with a sigh that belied her laughing eyes, 
she re-entered the house. 

Colonel Innisdale had left for Williamsburg with the 
dawn; Miss Crawford departed immediately after break¬ 
fast, and Beatrice found the day long and lonely. She 
felt unusually restless, and flitted about the house with 
purposeless animation, now rearranging the parlor or 
the dining-room, now darting into the garden to fill a 
vase with the loveliest blossoms, now pausing to glance 
at the hands of the clock that did not seem to move, 
now bustling into the kitchen to give some new instruc¬ 
tion or countermand an earlier one. But Aunt ’Lizbeth 
seemed to divine the symptoms, for when her mistress 
darted out again, she turned a knowing wink towards 
her aged spouse, and Alec winked back with a grin that 
threatened to engulf his ears; whereupon the honest old 

220 


THE END OF A PERFECT DAY 221 

mammy, as she buried her ebon hands to the elbows in 
white flour, murmured piously, 

God bless ’er, sweet soul, an ’ keep ’er happy. ’ ’ 

Beatrice at length re-ascended to her room, and 
summoned Fanny Morgan to her. There, with her 
favored maid, she spent several hours, trying on various 
dresses and making slight alterations in some of them, 
the while chattering as gaily as a sparrow. 

“What is the matter, Fanny?” she asked suddenly. 
“You are so sad and silent.” 

“Sorry you find me so, my lady,” the girl answered. 
“Indeed, I am not sad.” 

“Poor child,” said the mistress. “I know I have 
neglected you terribly these few weeks, but I have been 
so busy entertaining our friends and being entertained, 
that it could hardly be helped. I have not forgotten 
you.” 

“It is very kind of you to remember me, Miss Betty,” 
Fanny replied. • ‘ Of course, your first duty lies to your 
friends.” 

“I am not so ungrateful as to believe that, child,” 
Beatrice retorted with sparkling eyes. “No friend will 
ever cause me to forget that but for you and what you 
suffered, my bones would long ago have been laid 
beneath the sod of an Indian village. And that reminds 
me, Fanny. Father said he asked the governor about 
that license for your freedom, and received an assurance 
that it should soon be ready.” 

“You are, indeed, very thoughtful, my mistress,” said 
the girl. “From my heart I thank you, though freedom 
now can mean so little to me.” 

“I know, dear,” Miss Innisdale answered tenderly. 
“Yet it is the best that can be done under the circum¬ 
stances. I shall do whatever I can for you, Fanny,” she 
continued consolingly, “and perhaps if you could settle 
down and try to forget the past, you could yet be 
happy. I have been thinking, too, of asking Miss Craw- 


222 


UNDER THE SKIN 


ford to let Walter come over and spenci another day with 
yon. You enjoy his company, don’t you?” 

“I do, Miss Betty,” she replied without enthusiasm. 

‘ ‘ And perhaps in time you could learn to care for him. 
It would lessen your sorrows appreciably if you had 
some strong man’s arm on which to lean, and Walter is 
a splendid fellow.” 

“I shall never care for him that way, Miss Betty,” 
she answered; “nor for anyone else.” 

Miss Innisdale did not reply at once. 

“Perhaps you are right, Fanny,” she said at length, 
“and I can understand you. If I had loved once, I do 
not believe I, either, could love another. A woman has 
but one heart to give, and when it has been truly given, 
it can never be recalled. But whatever happens, dear, 
you must remain with me.” 

“I shall be very happy if you’ll let me, Miss Betty. 
There is none other in all Virginia who cares for me.” 

“And I shall try to have you with me more, child. 
Happily, the round of balls and parties is almost finished, 
then we shall settle down to good old home life once 
more. To-night, the gentlemen who are out shooting with 
my brother will stay for supper, and I want you to assist 
Alec. The poor old soul has had a busy time of late, 
and I have instructed Aunt ’Lizbeth to prepare a royal 
feast. Let’s run down to the kitchen and see how she 
is getting along. Perhaps we can assist her with some¬ 
thing. ’ ’ 

As the afternoon wore on, Miss Innisdale’s restless¬ 
ness increased, and her attention was more evenly divided 
between the clock and the open window. She was the 
first to detect the sound of distant hoof-beats, and 
hastened to the door to welcome her hero home. She 
asked what luck he had, but did not hear his answer; 
and her habitual courtesy made her say the proper 
things to his companions without being conscious of 
their presence. He was all she saw, and her soul tingled 


223 


THE END OP A PERFECT DAY 

with an interminable sweetness as his warm hand lay 
in hers, as his keen brown eyes squirted a flood of glory 
into her heart. 

Supper was announced. Leaning upon his arm, she 
seemed to tread on air to her place at the dining table. 
The merry party ranged around. Her happiness was 
contagious. 

It was the grandest supper Beatrice ever ate. She 
had never before noticed how beautiful the dining-room 
was. The exquisitely carved wainscotting seemed to 
shine with a golden lustre new to her; the massive, glass- 
fronted cupboards, with silver knobs and clasps, evinced 
a mystic loveliness. Prom above the wide mantel-piece, 
a magnificent portrait of her mother smiled down upon 
her with a tender sweetness, as if she, too, shared her 
daughter’s happiness. She longed to rush to it, to kiss 
the life-like lips, and whisper in the sympathetic ears 
the full story of her own joy. 

Around the walls, from massive candle-sticks of solid 
silver, a dozen candles of myrtle-wax shot forth a beam 
of glorious, rosy-tinted light as they had never done 
before, and their fragrant odor was more enchanting 
than it had ever been. Even the high, dark roof seemed 
to arch over her head a benignant blessing. 

The culinary efforts of Aunt ’Lizbeth superseded any¬ 
thing she had previously done. The tempting flavor of 
viands and of wine was irresistible;—this, at least, the 
actions of the entire party confirmed;—while the quick, 
noiseless attentions of Uncle Alec and the light, graceful 
movements of Fanny Morgan left nothing to be desired. 

The companjr was young, gay and appreciative. 
Oliver, it is true, was a trifle absorbed, but eyes like 
his sister’s could not discover that. His companions,— 
Frederick Evans, Benjamin Stoddart and Leopold 
Silverton,—ate and drank and chatted with the levity 
of youth without cares. But greater than them all, a 
giant among pigmies, the single god on Olympus, sat 


224 


UNDER THE SKIN 


Arthur Pressley, the man who had created all this happi¬ 
ness. His every word was like a drop of nectar to her 
soul; the sparkle of his eyes electrified her being, and 
intensified the joy of existence; the ringing candor of 
his manly laugh imbued her with a confidence that this 
should be her lot for ever, and pointed forth whence 
she should ever look for truth and protection and love. 

The conversation was disconnected and common-place, 
—odd snatches of the field, the hunt, society in Virginia 
and in Europe. All took part; all were amused. 

“Major Pressley,” said Silverton during a pause, 
“you promised to tell us more about your African trip.” 

“It is a long story,’’ Pressley replied, ‘‘and one I love 
to dwell upon. I’m afraid I shall bore you.” 

“No.” “No.” “You won’t.” “We shan’t be 

bored,” the table chorused up. 

Pressley slowly emptied his glass and dried his lips. 
In the expectant hush, Fanny Morgan silently glided 
up and refilled it. 

“It was some eight years ago,” said Pressley. “There 
were Edwin Laftree, Cyril Hedley, George Murchison, 
Talbot Wesley, Archer Olcott and I. We had touched 
at Lisbon and at Morocco, and then decided to see some¬ 
thing of the dark continent. 

“We reached the Slave Coast without event, secured 
reliable guides, and started up a magnificent river in 
three small boats. It was a wonderful country through 
which we passed. At first, the river faded into dismal 
swamps stretching away on both sides, and we often 
had to pick our way through dense growths of man¬ 
groves, and giant vines, and w T ater lilies; but as we drew 
farther from the coast, we confronted verdant forests, 
with massive oak, and teak, and mahogany, and other 
mighty trees unknown to us. The hills were wrapped in 
a majestic vesture of green and red and blue and white, 
unrivalled even in your own Virginian forests. 

“We landed often, and made short explorations into 


225 


THE END OF A PERFECT DAY 

the country. We collected specimens of unknown ferns, 
orchids, creepers, and beautiful stones, and found 
frequent traces of gold. We shot deer of various species, 
several boars, two lions, and a large number of birds. 
We crept past several native villages, their crude cluster 
of oval huts lost in the jungle. Oh, I know I tire you 
with descriptions of the country which so forcibly im¬ 
pressed itself upon my mind.” 

“No, no; you don’t,” the party protested. 

“From the outset,” Pressley continued, “we seemed 
doomed to misfortune. We were but a week from the 
coast when Hedley contracted fever. It proved to be of a 
very virulent type, and, despite our crude efforts and the 
stock of remedies with which we had come supplied, two 
days later we laid the j oiliest of our party under the 
shade of a spreading African cotton-tree, promising to 
take back his body on our return to civilization. 

“With ardor dampened, but determination no whit 
abated, we continued up the river. Our discoveries 
seemed ample compensation, for we knew we were open¬ 
ing up for England a second, and a greater, Virginia. 
But ill-luck dogged our steps, even as it did to the 
pioneers who settled in your own beautiful country. 
Wesley developed a disease none of us had seen before, 
and, in spite of all we could do, he, too, was laid in an 
African grave. 

“We grew more cautious of our food and water after 
that. We tried to keep our bodies fit, and avoided over¬ 
exertion. And still we journeyed inland. 

“The crisis came at length. We had probably covered 
two thousand miles of the beautiful river, and felt like 
going on for ever. The natives had not molested us, our 
guides seemed reliable, our health was perfect, and our 
spirits were high. We camped one night, as was our 
custom, in a narrow glen a few rods from the river. Two 
of the guides remained on watch, as usual; the rest of 
us turned in to peaceful sleep. 


226 


UNDER THE SKIN 


“What happened next, I never knew. I must have 
slept unusually soundly, for, when a terrible commotion 
brought me, heavy-eyed, to my feet, I found myself 
weaponless, surrounded by perhaps a hundred black and 
bearded savages. My three companions were beside me: 
the fate of our guides I have not yet learned. 

“Without weapons, our defence was feeble. Murchison 
struck down his assailant with a blow to the jaw: in 
another instant a spear sank into his heart, and only three 
of us were left. We were bound, and each led off in 
a different direction. 

“My own gaoler seemed to be the leader of his party. 
I was taken to his village, and, amidst great rejoicing, 
I was locked up in a strong barn to await my fate. 

“There was one other tenant of the gaol,—a negro 
warrior of another tribe, who had been taken in battle. 
Our mutual danger and enforced companionship soon 
made us fast friends, and, gradually, I learnt his lan¬ 
guage sufficiently well for us to comprehend each other. 

“Our captor was a cannibal chief, he told me, and we 
were being fattened and kept for the great national 
holiday, still some months away. Together we tried to 
devise means of escape, but to no avail. 

“At length the holiday arrived, and we were taken 
out for the butchery. I had learnt enough of my friend’s 
language to address the chief. I asked him for my gun, 
and discovered he had kept it secure. I told him of its 
marvellous power, and pointed out that with its use 
he could overcome all his enemies. He fell, at last, to my 
arguments. He brought out my belongings intact,—gun, 
pistols, wallet and knife,—that I should show him how 
they were to be used. 

11 1 loaded the gun for him to see,—the pistols had not 
been discharged. Then, when I had the company wound 
up to the highest pitch of curiosity, I fired clean through 
the chief’s head. Six times the pistols barked almost 
simultaneously, and his six leading warriors sank beside 


THE END OP A PERFECT DAY 227 

him. A slash of my knife set my fellow-prisoner free, 
and before any one could wake up to the tragedy that 
had been perpetrated, we were a hundred yards away. 

‘ ‘ Heaven, how we ran! A loud halloo was raised, and 
the crowd darted after us. But an arrow could hardly 
have overtaken us, and they had none. We reached the 
river,—my companion knew the spot where the boats 
were kept. Luckily, one stood in the water. We sprang 
in together, grasped the oars, and rowed like Oxford 
racers. They followed hard, a dozen boats at first, but 
we gained on them at every stroke. In four hours, the 
last of our pursuers was lost to view. 

‘ ‘ Still, we never slackened speed for twenty-four hours. 
Then we felt reasonably secure, and gathered some pro¬ 
visions, after which, we hurried on again. 

“The following day we reached my friend’s country. 
He would have me remain with him, but I had seen 
enough of Central Africa. I was bound for the coast. 

“My progress now was slower, and my provisions soon 
ran out. But I had my gun, and a good supply of 
ammunition. On the second day after I had parted from 
my companion, I reached a country that seemed to 
promise all that man could wish. I drew my boat up the 
bank, took my gun, and started into the dense forest. It 
is a forest I love to remember, and one whose picture 
time will never efface, for here was destined to happen 
the loveliest and most wonderful chapter in all my 
rambles over the world.” 

He raised his glass to his lips and emptied it. His 
little audience hung breathless on his words. Beatrice, 
with parted lips and gluttonous eyes, felt her heart give 
a mightier bound in admiration of her hero. 

‘ ‘ I saw a young antelope, and levelled my rifle at him, ’ ’ 
Pressley continued. “Before I could pull the trigger, I 
heard the leaves rustling at my feet. I darted round, 
and saw, half-a-dozen yards away, the long, gleaming 


228 


UNDER THE SKIN 


tusks and small, fiery eyes of a wild boar, charging down 
upon me in all the ferocity of jungle savagery. 

‘‘I turned the gun towards him blindly, and pulled 
both triggers at once. At the same instant a tornado 
struck me, gashing me to the soul. I never knew what 
happened. 

“It was long afterwards that I woke up. My first 
conscious feeling was that my wounded arm had been 
bandaged, and then I looked up, and beheld the most 
glorious picture I have ever seen. 

“Before me stood a negro maiden. Her beauty must 
not be judged by the standards we have established and 
acknowledged. In a Picadilly mansion, she might have 
been considered queer, and out of place; in the grim 
African jungle, with her background of dense leafage 
and blood and savage orgies, the sunlight trickling down 
upon her long, black tresses and lighting up her tender, 
enquiring eyes, it was the most heavenly picture I have 
ever seen. Still I love to dream of her as an angel,— 
a black angel of black Africa, with all the glory of her 
continent concentred in her. Yet the Princess Ubaba 
was pure human.” 

“The Princess Ubaba?” gasped Beatrice, springing 
from her chair. “Was it the Princess Ubaba?” 

All eyes turned to her, and in that instant it flashed 
upon her that she had pledged the white woman’s word 
not to reveal what she knew. She glanced at Fanny 
Morgan. The negress at that moment chanced to be 
replenishing Oliver’s glass. Not a muscle of her body 
twitched; not an eye-lash moved. She might not have 
heard the Englishman; she might have been one of the 
images carved out of black walnut, save only that she 
changed the position of her arm when the glass had been 
filled, and glided silently back to her appointed station. 

“The Princess Ubaba,” Beatrice repeated, her voice 
trembling in her effort to conceal her emotion. “What 
a pretty name! Tell me about the Princess Ubaba.” 


THE END OF A PERFECT DAY 


229 


“I cannot tell you of her,” Pressley replied, “for, 
even to myself, I have never been able to describe her 
satisfactorily. She was but a child then, hardly more 
than fifteen, but she had a woman’s head, and a woman’s 
heart. Her dress was a single loose apron of skin, 
without adornment, yet nowhere in all Europe have I 
seen a princess who better looked the part, despite the 
gaudy and glittering finery of rank. 

“She had been led to me by the report of my gun. 
She had removed the carcass of the boar, which might, 
otherwise, have pressed me to death, had dressed my 
wounds, and nursed me back to consciousness. She bore 
me to a cave, and prepared a couch for me; for she 
assured me she could not protect me from her people, to 
whom the white man was unknown. 

“For nearly a month I lay there hidden. Daily she 
came to me, accompanied by a single attendant, bringing 
me the best that the larder of her mother afforded. Her 
interest, her devotion, her kindness of heart were wonder¬ 
ful, and, though her education was wofully circum¬ 
scribed, I have nowhere discovered a girl of her age more 
naturally intelligent. 

“During the four weeks, she learnt a good deal of 
English, and I even taught her to read. When I was 
at last able to depart, she carefully provisioned my boat, 
and sent her most trusted henchman to guide me to the 
coast. And when she bade me go, I left her as I should 
have parted from a sister lost for ever in the African 
wilds. For, though I could never learn to read her 
emotions, I could see that my departure distressed her 
gravely. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I tell you, Pressley, ’ ’ taunted Oliver, who had heard 
the story several times before, “that the girl was in love 
with you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Nonsense, Oliver, ’ ’ Pressley answered with a touch of 
impatience, “she was too pure, too innocent, too un¬ 
selfish for that. I left her a shilling, with my initials 


230 


UNDER THE SKIN 


on it, and promised to return. Had grave domestic 
matters not interferred with my plans, I might already 
have done so, for I found many Englishmen ready to 
accompany me to explore her rich and wonderful country. 
But I have not forgotten my promise, and I suppose by 
this time Ubaba is queen of Kubanda.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


DEAD HEARTS. 

None but her brother had observed the sudden con¬ 
fusion, the quick flush, and then the ghastly pallor of 
Miss Innisdale’s face. And Oliver, though an Oxford 
graduate, was neither quick-witted nor inquisitive. 

The full meaning of her lover’s story had flashed upon 
Beatrice suddenly,—more suddenly than her brother’s 
thoughtless jest. This was the man whom Fanny Morgan 
loved, whom she said she should love for ever, since she 
could love no other. And this was the man to whom 
she, also, had given her own heart, whom she loved with 
all the intensity of womanly ardor, and whom she knew 
she could never cease loving. Her slave-girl’s rival! 
God! A triple impossibility! 

She did not hear the conclusion of his story, did not 
hear the others comment on it, did not know that supper 
was over. His touch on her arm started her violently. 

‘ 1 Shall we go for a stroll through the garden?” he 
was asking, smiling pleasantly in happy remembrance 
of last night. 

“I—I do not feel myself to-night,” she forced herself 
to stammer back. ‘‘ Won’t you please excuse me? I’d so 
much rather go to bed. ’ ’ 

“You do look pale. And your hands are cold and 
shivering. You are not ill, are you, dear?” he enquired 
anxiously. 

“It is only a passing spell,” she replied wearily. “I 
shall soon be all right. Thank you; you are very 
considerate.” 

She labored up the stairs to her room, resting heavily 
on his arm. At the door he paused, and turned her lips 

231 


232 


UNDER THE SKIN 


towards him. She thought it might be easier to endure 
his caress this once than to explain, for she had barely 
strength to stand. 

He sprang back from her ghastly face. 

“Heavens! Betty, you are ill; very ill. I’ll get the 
doctor at once.” 

“Please don’t, Major Pressley. Indeed, I shall soon be 
all right. ’ ’ 

“Go in, and lie down,” Pressley counselled, as he saw 
her clutch at the door-post to steady herself. “ I ’ll send 
up your maid.” 

“No, don’t.” Then, after a pause, she added, “Yes, 
you may send ’Lizbeth to me.” 

A minute later, Aunt ’Lizbeth bustled into the room. 

‘ ‘ Laws ’a ’ massy! Ma honey baby, am you ill ? ’ ’ she 
exclaimed as she glanced at her mistress’ haggard face. 

“Merely a little tired, ’Lizbeth,” she answered. “Tell 
Fanny I have retired, and shall not need her.” 

“Sho’, ma baby,” cried the old lady, starting to un¬ 
dress her mistress without authority. “Now jes’ you 
come lay on you ol ’ mummy’s bosam wher ’ you is growed, 
an’ mek me croon you to sleep.” 

“Thank you, Auntie, but really I don’t need it. I 
shall soon sleep it off. You may go.” 

With a last, reluctant look at her mistress, Aunt 
’Lizbeth closed the door behind her, and descended the 
stairs. Beatrice threw herself helplessly into a chair. 

Sleep? With this thing tugging at her heart? She 
cast an ungrateful glance at her pillow, as if it contained 
a venom she feared. 

Slowly her mind picked up the details of the puzzle 
before her. This was the man Fanny Morgan had loved 
in the jungle of her own home-land. And Fanny had 
known him from the first. She remembered their first 
meeting, when the bottle of wine had fallen from her 
hands,—hands that had never before been careless. She 
remembered the tearful girl she had seen under the 


/ 


DEAD HEARTS 


233 


oleanders, who had made her renew her promise of 
secrecy. She remembered that Fanny Morgan had 
avoided the gaze of the Englishman whenever it was 
possible for her to do so. 

Of course, Pressley had not recognized the girl. Who 
could identify a haughty princess in Central Africa with 
a negro slave-girl on a Virginian plantation? And he 
might never know, for she had pledged the white woman’s 
word to eternal secrecy, and the negress was not likely 
to betray herself. 

Nor could the revelation do more than complicate the 
problem. She did not misjudge either of them. No union 
between them could now be possible. An Englishman of 
independent means and honored ancestry could not wed 
a negro slave-girl, even if the Virginian law did not 
penalize such an alliance. And to less she knew neither 
would stoop. 

Nor was there any evidence that Pressley had cared 
for the princess in the way in which that spirited and 
romantic young lady had accepted their association. 
Gratitude and admiration his manly narrative showed, 
but not a tinge of love. And the girl’s own story had 
never charged that the mysterious stranger had loved 
her, or had sought her love. 

On the other hand, Beatrice had irrevocably given her 
own heart to the Englishman. She knew now that she 
could love no other, could not live without him. Yet, 
she could not live with him. The rival of her slave ? To 
see her negro maid cast wistful glances up to her hus¬ 
band’s eyes, and to know those glances meant love,— 
undying love, such as she alone should feel? It could 
not be. 

Who was to blame? She strove to be just, even in 
her sorrow. Neither of them had done wrong. But for 
the Princess Ubaba, Arthur Pressley would never have 
returned to England. All she did was to save him, and 
then to love him, innocently, with all her girlish heart. 


234 


UNDER THE SKIN 


She had thought it noble of the girl when she had heard 
the story in the wild Virginian hills. She could not 
reverse her judgment now. And she did not see how 
anyone could know Arthur Pressley without loving him. 
Pressley, too, had done nothing except meet with an 
accident and need aid. For that she dared not blame 
him. 

If the girl had never told her tale, it might have been 
different. Yet it was for her sake that Fanny Morgan 
had recounted the story of her life, which she had 
guarded so closely. And it was as a result of her own 
persistence that the story of the white man had been 
added; the rest had been told without reference to him. 

If Pressley had kept back his proposal for twenty-four 
hours, she would have known what answer to make,— 
might have kept her heart from flitting into his keeping. 
Or if the story of his African adventures had been told 
a day earlier. Yet, he could not have foreseen the con¬ 
nection between the two. 

Nor could she blame herself for having yielded to his 
persuasion, for having given him her love. It seemed 
a matter in which she had taken no conscious part. Her 
heart had simply flown to him. She could not have saved 
herself. He was the one man made for her to love, the 
one man she had ever loved, the one she ever could. 

No one was to blame. Yet fate had enmeshed these 
three in that entangling snare from which there was no 
escape. And she alone knew all the coils: she alone must 
face the solution. 

The license for Fanny Morgan’s freedom was nearly 
ready. And the law of Virginia, never, it is true, 
enforced, provided that freed slaves should leave the 
state. If Fanny Morgan went, never to be seen 
again- 

But Beatrice could not commit an injustice simply 
because the law permitted it. Could she, for her own 
selfish happiness, sacrifice the unhappy girl whom she 



DEAD HEARTS 


235 


had learned to love,—the girl who had saved her life at 
the risk of her own, when she might have turned and 
fled at the first sign of danger as Pompey had done ? 

Yet it was for her to decide the fate of three. She 
gritted her teeth firmly, pressed her hand to her cold 
brow, and made her choice. Life-long unhappiness for 
her! 

She hoped it did not mean that for Pressley, too. 
He might recover from his infatuation, and learn to love 
another. She hoped he would. It would be humiliating 
to her that he should forget her for another; but her 
love was stronger than her pride, and her sense of justice 
strongest of all. She would suffer in silence, as Fanny 
Morgan suffered, if only he, her hero, her god, were 
happy. 

Morning dawned upon the pale figure upright in her 
chair, upon the white bed still untouched. The handle 
of the door moved slowly. Fanny Morgan stepped into 
the room. 

‘ ‘ Mercy; Miss Betty, what’s the matter ? ’ ’ she gasped. 

“You are very ill. You haven’t-” her eyes fell 

on the unused sheets,—“you haven’t been to bed.” 

“I didn’t feel quite well, dear,” Beatrice answered. 
“But I’m better now.” 

“You oughtn’t to have done it, Miss Betty,” the girl 
reproved her gently. “You should have gone to bed. 
Let me put you to bed now, and get you some hot tea. ’ ’ 

“No, Fanny. Leave me now. When I need you, I 
shall ring.” 

There was a tinge of annoyance in her voice, which 
failed to escape the girl’s sharp ears. 

“Thank you, Miss Betty,” she said sadly. “You were 
very kind to me, and I shall not forget. Fanny Morgan, 
your slave-girl, shall never change.” 

Beatrice looked up at the girl’s clouded brow, and her 
heart chided her for her unkindness. 

‘ 4 Come to me, Fanny, ’ ’ she said tenderly. ‘ ‘ How easy 



236 


UNDER THE SKIN 


it is for us to be unjust! Kiss me, dear. There, now; 
we are sisters, as we were in the wild forests. Heavens! 
if I only had your nerves!” 

‘ ‘ It comes from much suffering and a dead heart, Miss 
Betty, ’ ’ Fanny answered kindly. ‘ ‘ Heaven keep it from 
you! And, Miss Betty, the Princess Ubaba died years 
and years ago. Fanny Morgan, the slave-girl, does not 
remember her.” 

“You may go now, Fanny,” Beatrice answered not 
unkindly. ‘ ‘ The white woman chooses the path of honor 
for herself, and even her sister may not advise her.” 

Fanny Morgan turned from the room. At the door 
she paused: 

“I almost forgot to say, Miss Betty, that it was Major 
Pressley who sent me up to bring him word how you 
were.” 

“Thank the major for his solicitude,” said Beatrice 
with a coolness she could hardly feel, “and tell him I 
am quite recovered. Ask him to see me in the garden 
immediately after breakfast, if he is not too busy.—And 
you might let ’Lizbeth send up something for me. I 
shall not be at the table. ’ ’ 

Fanny Morgan descended the stairs moodily. She had 
read her mistress’ heart. 

Arthur Pressley hurried through a breakfast for which 
he had small appetite, and hastened to the garden where 
the happiest hour of his life had been spent. He had not 
long to wait, for, from the window of her room, Miss 
Innisdale had been watching. She descended the stairs, 
crossed the bit of lawn, and swung open the garden gate. 

Pressley ran towards her. 

“Heavens! Beatrice, you are unkind,—unkind to 
yourself,” he cried. “You have been ill; very ill.” 

“I am not ill, Major,” she replied. “Unfortunately, 
I did not sleep well, and I am conscious that I look a 
trifle pale. But it is nothing.” 


DEAD HEARTS 


237 


He had taken her hand, and led her towards the seat 
that he considered most hallowed of all. He sat beside 
her, and looked lovingly up into her eyes. 

‘'Major Pressley,” she said with a steady calmness of 
which she did not believe herself capable, “you have 
conferred upon me the greatest honor you could offer to 
any woman, and from my heart I appreciate the intensity, 
honesty and purity of your love. And your ardor, as 
well as my own childish inexperience, swept me beyond 
my own control, made me appear to accept your devotion, 
made me, if you will, promise to return your noble love. 

“Major Pressley, I have slept upon my decision; have 
sat awake on it when I should have been sleeping. I still 
think .you the greatest creature that the Great Creator 
ever made,—the noblest, the purest, the best. And I feel 
myself the heartless, irresponsible, ungenerous jilt you 
must think me. But, Major Pressley, I cannot marry you, 
and I have come to ask you to relieve me of my promise.” 

He had waited impatiently for her to finish, while the 
blood criss-crossed his open brow. Now his face grew 
white as he replied. 

“Heavens! Beatrice, do you know what you are 
asking? The ruin of two lives, dear; the breaking of 
two hearts. Think over it again, love; take more time 
and search your heart, but do not ask me—that.” 

“I have given the matter all the thought it is possible 
for me to devote to the consideration of my own happi¬ 
ness and that of the noblest man in the world,” she 
answered. ‘ ‘ The course I am taking is the only possible 
one. It were criminal of me to mar the lives of us both. ’ ’ 

The steadiness of her voice irked him as much as it 
surprised her. If there had been a tremor, he might 
have hoped. 

“Betty, darling,” he pleaded, “I can love no other 
but you. You mean more than life itself to me. I cannot 
give you up. Is there some fault in me that I can cure, 
—some failing that time, or love, or earnest reformation 


238 


UNDER THE SKIN 


may efface ? I shall sacrifice my dearest passions just to 
win and keep your love.” 

“Major Pressley,” she replied, “I know no man on 
earth more worthy of a woman’s heart than you. And 
can you think what it means to me to fight my own 
selfishness, to keep myself from grasping what any noble- 
minded girl must wish to grasp? Ah, it was a bitter, 
soul-rending struggle, but in the end your own nobility 
won. Nothing must mar your happiness, no dishonor 
stain our life.” 

‘ ‘ Dishonor, Beatrice ? ” he gasped. ‘ ‘ Who dared couple 
dishonor with the name of Arthur Pressley? I-” 

“None does. None dare. None ever shall,” she 
answered. “Your life is clean: I know it is. So is 
mine. Yet we may not wed in honor. More I cannot 
say. ’ ’ 

“You have some secret, dear, that you will not entrust 
to me; some little matter that your innocent heart 
magnifies a thousand-fold. Let me share it with you. 
It’s not enough to stand between us. ’ 1 

She hesitated for an instant. 

“Yes, I have a secret,” she replied,—“a secret pure as 
the tears that angels weep. Yet, were I to betray that 
trust, were I to give you the right to call me wife, then 
you would lead from the altar a dishonored bride, a girl 
who would blush to look into your honest eyes. Such 
you would not have: such I shall not be. ’ ’ 

“Beatrice, sweet, pure, good angel of my life, do not 
let your pride separate us. Honor is an elastic word; 
dishonorable you can never be. Vows have been broken 
without dishonor, and trifles ignored; for love knows 
no law. You are too pure, dear, to understand the 
latitude which honor allows. Me you cannot trust, for 
I have a selfish reason to disregard your scruples. But 
your father has no reason to be unjust, and is a man of 
the highest honor. Consult him first, dear. Let him 
decide for you, and I shall accept his verdict.” 



DEAD HEARTS 


239 


‘‘I have the fullest confidence in my father,” she 
replied, “but not less in you, Major Pressley, for I know 
you cannot be selfish. Yet this matter I must decide 
alone, with my own heart and my God. Oh, Major 
Pressley, you have ever been noble and generous. Pity 
my helplessness, and tell me I am free/” 

14 God! Beatrice, you bid me tear my own heart from 
my bosom and trample it in the dust.—No, do not weep, 
dear. I love you with a heart that knows not to relax 
its grip; a heart that cannot change. But I must not 
hold you on those terms. You are free, Beatrice; free 
of the pledge you gave me two nights ago: a word shall 
not ensnare you. But, heaven be my witness, I shall 
never cease to love you, and to strive to bind you with 
an affection no woman can resist.” 

She slid to her knees, and seized his hand before he 
could prevent her. 

“God bless you, my friend; my noble, generous*, un¬ 
selfish friend. There is no word of thanks that I can 
utter. Yet, please forget the unworthy girl who wan¬ 
dered across your path. Seek a nobler, a worthier 
woman who can appreciate your own nobility, and if you 
ever remember the unfortunate Beatrice, you’ll see ’twas 
all for the best. Go now, my friend, and leave me to 
my shame. Return when I’m myself again. We’ll ride 
through the fields, and row down the river, and laugh, 
and dance, and forget this unfortunate chapter in our 
lives. ’ ’ 

He went, with eyes that did not see his path, with feet 
that needed all his efforts to propel, with head pendant 
like the tail of a beaten cur. And Beatrice sat there 
staring at the flowers without knowing that flowers were 
there; sat silent, motionless, tearless. For her heart, too, 
was dead. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 


A PERIOD OF UNREST. 

No eye reads more faithfully the emotions of a 
beloved daughter than do those of a devoted father. A 
mother can afford to be purblind, but the confidences to 
which she is entitled are often withheld from the father 
through the natural modesty of the most innocent; and 
he must study her actions, translate her words, and fill 
in the blanks, if he would read her heart. Yet he under¬ 
takes this task with a thorough sympathy which the more 
endears her to him. 

The charms her lover sees, the father also sees, but he 
sees them multiplied by all that was dear in her mother 
long before her, and he does not scruple to make a gener¬ 
ous allowance as a sop to his own self-gratification. Yet 
this is not all vanity; it is love,—paternal love; the 
noblest, the purest, the nighest eternal that exists. 

A week passed before Colonel Innisdale returned from 
Williamsburg: an hour later he had read his daughter’s 
unease. She had recovered her accustomed self-posses¬ 
sion ; chatted, laughed, and joked with her old-time frank¬ 
ness; seemed perfectly at ease. Yet his soul-searching, 
sympathetic eyes had discovered the sore spot in her 
heart. 

For several days he waited, in the hope that he might 
have her confidence, that she might herself remove the 
obstacle which stood in the path of her happiness, or that 
her lover would frankly inform him of the position in 
which thev stood. 

This, too, was Pressley’s intention. But the fear 
that she might be displeased at his making any such reve¬ 
lation, or that even her father might misunderstand 

240 


A PERIOD OP UNREST 


241 


her,—for to that extent does the conceit of a lover often 
go,—and the hope that he might yet be able to overcome 
her scruples, deterred him. His resolution was still sin¬ 
cere to surmount whatever difficulties stood in his path, 
for he well knew that he could never love any other 
woman. 

At length the honest colonel put his anxiety into words. 
He was alone in his office one morning when Beatrice 
sauntered in. He laid down his papers, and drew her 
to him. 

“Is my little girl happy?” he enquired, as he kissed 
the warm brow. 

“Quite happy, dad,” she answered gaily. “I’m 
always happy when I have you to love.” 

“Have you nothing to tell your old dad?” he coaxed. 

“Nothing, dear. Life moves so slowly here; though 
it’s been ever so much jollier since Ollie came home.” 

*‘ And Major Pressley, ’ ’ Innisdale added. ‘ ‘ Don’t you 
like him?” 

“Indeed, I do, dad. He’s a fine man; the noblest I 
have met.” 

“Is he going to take my little girl away from me?” 

She cuddled up nearer to him. 

“I’m going to stay with my daddy till he is tired of 
me,” she answered. 

“You have no mother, dear; and a father is a cumber¬ 
some old thing for a grown girl to have. Can’t tell him 
any of your secrets, can you ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Daddy, sweet, sweet daddy, ’ ’ she cried, throwing her 
arms about his neck, and kissing him effusively, ‘ ‘ please 
don’t say that. You’ve been mother and father and a 
whole bunch more to me. Of course I’d tell you all my 
little secrets. Haven’t I always told them to you ? ’ ’ 

“You have, dear,” he nodded. “But Major Pressley 
asked my permission to speak with you, and I have been 
expecting either of you to tell me something of what 
passed between you.” 


242 UNDER THE SKIN 

She paused for an instant, as a flush darkened her 
features. 

“lie asked me to marry him, dad,” she answered 
softly, “and I refused. Have I displeased you?” 

“Certainly not, dearie,” Innisdale answered hastily. 
“I was only worried lest he might have won you from 
me, for he is a very likable chap. But, of course, if you 
find his presence here irksome or objectionable-” 

“I don’t, dad,” she interrupted. “Major Pressley 
is, indeed, the finest gentleman I know. But I cannot 
marry him.” 

“And isn’t there something that keeps you worried, 
dear; some little uncertainty that gnaws at your heart ? ’ ’ 

“Nothing, dad. My mind is fully made up: the 
struggle is past. I shall be your daughter for life.” 

Innisdale read the unconscious abandon in her voice, 
and knew she had given her heart and could never love 
again. But he felt it was not the proper time to pursue 
the subject. Pie would win her confidence, would learn 
the truth, and then, if Pressley had slighted his child, 
God help Pressley. 

It is not possible that the relationships at Innismount 
could have remained as smooth as they had previously 
been. The colonel felt that the young Englishman was 
in some way responsible for his daughter’s uneasiness; 
Oliver, who had been first to notice her confusion, with¬ 
out trying to attribute a direct cause to it, looked with 
suspicion upon his friend; and even Beatrice, in her cau¬ 
tiousness not to betray her ungovernable adoration of the 
man she could never wed, unconsciously treated him with 
a careful formality which, without her knowing it, gave 
grounds to their unworthy suspicions. 

Nor was Pressley slow to notice the change. For a 
moment he wondered whether the time had not come for 
his departure from Virginia; then, fighter that he was, 
he decided that his flight would but confirm the opinions 



243 


A PERIOD OF UNREST 

they had formed. He would live down whatever they 
suspected, and win his darling yet. 

It was a discouraging struggle. If she had been bash¬ 
ful and shy and evasive, it would have been easy to tame 
and capture her. But she was ever frank and straight¬ 
forward ; she never avoided his company; and, on their 
long rides or rambles, she never insisted that they should 
be accompanied. 

Plainly she relied upon his honor; plainly she trusted 
him fully. He could even believe she loved him whole¬ 
heartedly, and that the obstacle to their happiness stood 
insurmountable before her. Love-making under such 
conditions was impossible. Unless he could discover and 
remove the obstacle, there could be no hope; and his 
every effort to locate it failed. 

His own confusion and uncertainty blinded him to the 
greater confusion and uncertainty which ranged around. 
Matters of far greater moment to the world than the 
breaking of two innocent young hearts, were rending 
Virginia apart. 

The confusion between Massachusetts and London was 
rapidly rushing to a climax. The Virginian Assembly 
had voted to support the sister colony. The governor 
had dissolved the Assembly, but the Assembly had 
laughed at the governor, and gone on with its work. A 
convention had been sent to Philadelphia to arrange the 
affairs of a nation that did not exist. 

Men who loved England as they loved only Virginia 
else, shook their heads gravely. A reconciliation between 
the governor and the burgesses must in some manner be 
effected; for the governor represented England and its 
sovereign, while the burgesses represented England and 
its people—then resident in Virginia, but hoping soon to 
go “home,” were it only on a visit. And with every 
step, reconciliation seemed farther away. It was at this 
pass that the governor suggested to his friend, Colonel 
Innisdale, an informal conference at Innismount. 


244 


UNDER THE SKIN 


Critics have done scant justice to the memory of John 
Murray, Earl of Dunmore. They have too often pictured 
him as a helpless mannikin in the hands of North and 
his king, and as nothing more. 

The age and conditions of his administration did, 
indeed, tend to helplessness, and Dunmore was frankly 
loyal to the mission he had undertaken, and to the man 
who had selected him for that mission. But, second only 
to his duty to his sovereign, he had a strong love for the 
country he governed, and a keen interest in its people. 
He was a diplomat above his accepted reputation, a brave 
man, a conscientious servant, and an affable gentleman. 

Dunmore’s reasons for suggesting to Colonel Innisdale 
a sort of week-end party at Innismount, in which the 
affairs of government might be discussed, were two-fold. 
The dissolution of the Assembly practically left the gov¬ 
ernor out of touch w 7 ith the people, and he realized that 
the two parties steadily drifted farther apart. To recall 
the burgesses he had dissolved was a humiliation to which 
he was not yet ready to stoop; yet if the same men could 
be brought together under any other name, he, as one of 
the party, and not as Governor of Virginia, would yield 
to almost any extent rather than precipitate the crisis. 

Matthew Innisdale and Patrick Henry were without 
doubt the most radical of the Virginians; and Innisdale, 
one of the wealthiest and most respected planters in the 
colony, was by far the most influential. Henry was at 
that time in Philadelphia, with Washington, Lee, Ran¬ 
dolph, and others; and if Innisdale was his host, his two 
most violent opponents would be silenced. A compromise 
might easily be reached, and the gentlemen then at Phila¬ 
delphia would be bound by it. 

Innisdale was not deceived by this latter consideration. 

“Major Crawford,” he said to his friend after the 
details had been arranged, “his lordship has taken an 
effective step to silence me in this discussion, since, as 
host, I must not offend any of my guests. You and I 


A PERIOD OF UNREST 


245 


have thought together, worked together, fought together. 
I leave it to you to take my place, to say the things that 
I should say, and to save me from any impropriety. ’ ’ 

Some thirty gentlemen sat down to supper in Colonel 
Innisdale’s mansion that Friday evening. They had 
assembled as guests of the colonel,—nothing more. Sev¬ 
eral of them were accompanied by their wives or daugh¬ 
ters; and there were half-a-dozen young men. They 
represented the best families scattered throughout Vir¬ 
ginia, many of whom have become famous in history. 

Dunmore smiled and bowed and shook hands around 
with that cordial and well-bred geniality even his greatest 
enemies have not denied him. His conversation was 
witty, sparkling, conciliating. He was playing the great¬ 
est game of his life; the stake was the sovereignty of 
England and the fame of the Murrays. 

The supper was magnificent, served with that opulent 
liberality inseparable from the wealthier plantations of 
colonial times. There was a profusion of the best 
French wines. The party was in the finest of spirits, 
even though the gaiety was so ostentatious as to seem 
superficial. 

Healths were drunk to the King, to the Governor, to 
the Colony of Virginia, to Colonel Innisdale, and to Miss 
Innisdale. The ladies, led by Mrs. Crawford, retired to 
an adjoining room, to drink strong souchong that had 
never paid His Majesty’s treasurer the stipulated three¬ 
pence per pound, and to listen to music and songs and 
idle gossip; though many ears among them seemed eager 
to catch snatches from the room they had left. 

The gentlemen remained in the dining-room. The 
tables had been cleared. A servant approached with a 
tray on which reposed thirty new clay pipes, all filled 
with the best Virginia tobacco. Another followed with a 
large silver bowl, also filled with the same material. Alec 
replenished the glasses. The company grew more hilari- 


246 UNDER THE SKIN 

ous. Yet all avoided the topic that was uppermost in 
every breast. 

Innumerable unnecessary toasts were drunk. When¬ 
ever conversation flagged, a new one was proposed. The 
younger men led in this, for the colonel’s wine was 
irresistible. 

There came another pause. Innisdale looked enquir¬ 
ingly up to the governor. 

“I wanted to suggest, Colonel,” said Dunmore, “that, 
since we shall all be here for the morrow, and some of us 
are a bit tired, we postpone till morning the discussion 
you propose. I have little doubt that, after the royal 
welcome you have given us, we shall be more fit with a 
few hours’ sleep.” 

There was no dissenting voice. To the gentlemen of 
the day, a few hours wasted meant nothing. And Dun- 
more had gained a point. He had created the impression 
that it was a parley for which he was not a bit anxious. 

Conversation struggled along, but Alec was busier now." 
Toasts were drunk, and healths proposed, often amidst 
uproarious laughter. 

Oliver Innisdale raised his glass. 

‘ 1 To the health of the Princess Ubaba, ’ ’ he proposed 
thickly,—“Major Pressley’s black beauty.” 

No apology can be offered for Oliver’s words. It would 
be charitable to attribute them to the wine, did not the 
reputation of Oxford in those days make such a supposi¬ 
tion improbable. He had seen his sister’s quick change 
of expression the first time she had heard that name, and 
her suffering since; yet this were too childish a revenge 
to offer. Probably he had inherited his father’s hastiness 
of expression, without the older man’s experience and 
innate sense of justice. 

The words were greeted with a roar of laughter from 
the younger men, as they raised their glasses to their lips. 
The elders sat silent, motionless, as though they had not 
heard. 


A PERIOD OP UNREST 247 

Arthur Pressley rose slowly to his feet with cool 
dignity. 

“The friends of the house of Pressley,” he said in a 
calm, cutting voice, “have never been the subject of silly 
jests and ridicule. That is a name which my own sense 
of what is due to all my friends would prevent me from 
introducing; it has been suggested, and there is my glove 
to any one who scruples to drink to the health of my 
purest and noblest friend.” 

The glove fluttered to the middle of the table, two feet 
from where Colonel Innisdale sat, and many felt that 
the challenge was principally aimed at him. 

Innisdale glanced up with eyes that flashed defiance. 
He be forced, in his own house, to drink the health of a 
negress, a savage no better than the hundreds who hoed 
his fields and gathered his tobacco? Not if a thousand 
devils confronted him. Nor should his guests be forced. 

But Dunmore, a diplomatist worthy of a better fate 
than that which eventually overtook him in the service of 
England, was narrowly watching the colonel. Any un¬ 
pleasantness at this moment, he well knew, might spoil 
all his hopes. 

* ‘ Permit me, Colonel; it falls to me, 5 ’ he said hastily, 
and clutched the glove as the fingers of both Crawford 
and Innisdale fell upon it. 

‘ ‘ It seems a queer thing, ’ ’ said the governor with rare 
tact, “that our friend should think any Virginian gentle¬ 
man would hesitate to honor his friend, or that in this 
loyal colony we should fail to honor the name of any 
potentate friendly to our sovereign liege of England. 
But Major Pressley’s mistake is readily excusable by the 
presence of negroes on the Virginian plantations; and 
the major does not understand that this is an entirely 
different class of people. The Princess Ubaba, like the 
Ethiopian whom Moses wedded, and the queen royally 
entertained by Solomon, the wisest of monarchs, is 
worthy of our highest esteem. Permit me to return your 


248 


UNDER THE SKIN 


gage, Major; and may it next time fall in a more neces¬ 
sary cause. I drink to the health of the Princess 
Ubaba.” 

Crawford was among the first to empty his glass, and 
several of the gentlemen followed his example. A few, 
however, waited on the colonel. He hesitated for a 
moment, till his gaze met the chiding, entreating eyes of 
Crawford. Then he slowly raised the glass to his lips, 
coughed, sputtered, choked, then set it down—empty. 
Plainly, it was a concession, not to Pressley, but to his 
other guests. 

“You are right, Colonel,” continued Dunmore, taking 
advantage of his success, “but we must pardon Major 
Pressley this time. He is not conversant with Virginian 
hospitality, and, in the countries through wdiich he has 
travelled, such displays might have been necessary. By 
the way, Major,” he added, rapidly shifting the con¬ 
versation from the sore subject, “you fought in India, 
I understand.” 

“Under Clive, my lord,” Pressley answered, “and 
won my commission before I was twenty.” 

“A fine record. And you have travelled extensively.” 

“In Europe, Asia and Africa.” 

“A truly wonderful performance at your age,” said 
the governor. “We shall be indebted to you for a 
wealth of information.” 

“The little I have gathered is ever at your service, 
my lord,” Pressley replied, “and at the service of my 
fellow-men. We know too little of the world in which 
we live.” 

“That is true,” Dunmore admitted. “One subject 
often brought up both here and in England is the 
African slave-trade. You have seen it at its source. 
What do you think about it?” 

“I think, my lord, that slavery is a great curse upon 
the negro, but an infinitely greater curse upon the white 



249 


A PERIOD OF UNREST 

man. In the interests of both, the trade ought to be 
put down, and the slaves freed.” 

“Mercy! Major Pressley/’ gasped Charles Adamson, 
a large slave-holder, “you’d be creating a worse condi¬ 
tion. What could we do with all the blacks around ? ’ ’ 

“That,” Pressley replied, “is a question of expediency, 
and has nothing to do with the justice of the case. It is, 
certainly, not their fault that they are here. Still, I have 
been told that the negroes make excellent servants. Why 
should we doubt that with the right handling they 
should make equally good subjects?” 

“Nothing doing there, Major,” said Adamson. “The 
slave does nothing save under direct supervision. The 
moment the overseer turns his back, the lazy rascals 
refuse to work.” 

“Can you blame them for that, Mr. Adamson?” 
Pressley asked. “Work is, to them, the sign-manual 
of their fate; even among our own people in Virginia, 
I have found that labor is considered disgraceful, and 
the lot of slaves. Can you blame the negro if he refuses 
to grasp gleefully the badge of his servitude ? ’ ’ 

“You think, then,” asked the governor, “that the 
negro would turn out to be docile and industrious as a 
free subject?” 

“That is my belief, my lord. But, of course, I have 
no personal knowledge as to how the freed negro acts. 
There are others here more fitted to give an opinion on 
the matter.” 

“My own experience,” said Crawford, “would tend to 
bear out Major Pressley. One of my negroes has been 
freed, and I since find him far more industrious, and 
extremely reliable.” 

“And I,” said Innisdale, for the first time re-entering 
the conversation, “have a girl who has saved my 
daughter’s life with a courage and devotion worthy of 
a white woman. But these are, of course, exceptions.” 

“I doubt whether or not those are the exceptions,” 


250 UNDER THE SKIN 

Pressley returned. “A careful investigation might prove 
it otherwise.” 

“It would, perhaps, be a good thing for the negroes 
if they were freed,” said Crawford, “but Major Press- 
ley has entirely ignored the interests of the Virginian 
planters. It would be a good thing for horses if the 
governor’s coach could travel from Williamsburg to 
Innismount without them; but since this cannot be done, 
he does not consider it an injustice to the animals to 
avail himself of their service. In the same manner, 
plantations cannot be worked without slaves.” 

“Contrarily, Major Crawford,” said Pressley, “it is 
the interest of the white man that I am chiefly consider¬ 
ing. It is upon him that the system works hardest.” 

“You are right there, Major,” Adamson interjected. 
“My rascals do make slavery a curse to me. I live in 
perpetual fear of the black devils.” 

‘ ‘ That is but one of its hardships, ’ ’ Pressley answered; 
“and the peopling of a country with more slaves than 
masters is a condition not to be ignored. But there are 
greater evils. I have already said that the system has 
brought the Virginian to consider labor degrading, while 
in England it is still honorable. Hence, the Virginian 
has, in many cases, developed into a helplessness which 
is hardly British. 

“The various shades of complexion one sees in Vir¬ 
ginia is certainly not complimentary to British honor; 
and, blackest of all black blots on a black page, because 
negroes are as valuable as horses, the same methods have 
in both cases been applied to stock the plantations, and 
to supply the best blood wherever it can be procured.* 
Such a condition cannot fail to lower the moral standard 
of white Virginia; and it needs no prophet to look for- 

* Though slave-breeding was not unknown in colonial days, it 
was not till after 1807, when the abolition of the African slave- 
trade stopped the imported supply, that it developed into a pro¬ 
lific and profitable industry.—The Author. 


A PERIOD OF UNREST 


251 


ward another century, and see the very passion you 
incite burst forth a menace to the daughters of its 
instigators.” 

“That means,” said Adamson, “that the negroes must 
perpetually be kept under control. The emancipation 
you advocate would at once precipitate the catastrophe 
you foresee.” 

“I am not so sure that negro slavery can continue,” 
Pressley answered. “The highest court has held that it 
is incompatible with British justice. Some of the most 
prominent men and women in England have formed 
societies for abolishing it; and at least one lady has 
bequeathed her entire fortune to that end. Even in 
America, the voice of protest is too often raised to be 
ignored . 9 9 

“It is,” said Dunmore, “a matter that should be care¬ 
fully studied. But isn’t it about time that we rejoin 
the ladies?” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


AN ATTEMPT AT RECONCILIATION. 

When the breakfast dishes had been cleared from the 
long mahogany table next morning, Colonel Innisdale 
rose slowly to his feet. 

‘‘My lord, and gentlemen/’ he said, “I believe every 
man here shares with me the sorrow with which we 
behold our own people being slowly torn apart by mis¬ 
takes and misunderstandings. And when I took upon 
myself the honor of asking you to share w r ith me the 
poor hospitality of my modest homestead, it was with a 
strong faith that, as loyal, open-hearted Englishmen 
together, and, above all, as friends and gentlemen, we 
might strive to arrive at some means by which our people 
may be reunited. 

‘ ‘ The conditions are known to all of us. The time for 
recrimination and denunciation is past. If anything can 
be done, it must be done at once, or we shall be too late 
to save the two lands dearest to our hearts. ” 

The colonel’s studied moderation surprised his friends. 
They did not even applaud. 

“Gentlemen,” said Dunmore, retaining his seat, as if 
to emphasize the informality of the gathering, “when 
our worthy host suggested to me a visit to his estate, 
during which we might discuss the unfortunate affairs 
of the colony, I at once saw the possibility of a solution. 
And, while it is impossible for the Governor of Virginia 
to take part in any such discussion, John Murray is here 
with you to-day, one of you, a Virginian and an English¬ 
man, my sole desire an end to the embroilment that is 
setting brother against brother. 

“It is, indeed, too late to discuss the matter; but, 

252 


AN ATTEMPT AT RECONCILIATION 253 

considering the situation in which the governor is placed, 
and the bitter criticisms hurled at him, you will, perhaps, 
allow me, who understands his position better than any 
other man in the colony, to explain his difficulties with¬ 
out trying to apologize for his mistakes. For we all make 
mistakes, gentlemen; and who makes least, wins. 

“The governor is a servant employed by the king to 
represent him in the colony and enforce his laws. 
Virginians are Englishmen, and, therefore, bound by the 
laws of England; yet, like other Englishmen in every 
part of England, there are many who do not wish to 
accept certain laws. In some cases, the law is, indeed, 
a faulty one. Sometimes the officer entrusted with its 
enforcement himself sees its folly. But must he, then, 
set up his own opinion against the wisdom of the 
appointed law-makers, and refuse to do his duty? If 
we did that, gentlemen, there could be no law, and no 
government. I only want you to see that the governor 
is the most misunderstood and the most unfortunate man 
in the entire affair. His sworn duty lies to his sovereign ; 
his heart lies with his fellow-countrymen of Virginia; 
he must choose a path that will offend neither. What 
can he do?” 

“He can resign,” answered Hector Warren from the 
other end of the table. 

“Yes,” Dunmore replied slowly, “he can resign; I 
have thought of that. He can throw up his job, and' 
return to England a discredited man. He may even be 
able to get another job in a brick-kiln or a slate-quarry. 
I have been pondering over it for some time. And a 
soldier, set to watch for the enemy’s approach, can also 
throw up his job when he hears the footsteps of the foe. 
But Englishmen, whether they live in Virginia or in 
Britain, apply a distasteful epithet to the name of such 
a man. A resignation, gentlemen, will take more than 
a year to become effective, and during that time, the 
governor must act. But I shall not waste your time in 


254 


UNDER THE SKIN 


bewailing the governor’s fate. You doubtless have some 
suggestions to offer.” 

“In the first place,” said Crawford, “the Assembly 
must be recalled.” 

“That can easily be done,” Dunmore answered. 
“They shall regulate the affairs of the colony, as they 
have always done; and their speech shall be unfettered. 
But the governor must insist that the name of His 
Sovereign Majesty be respected.” 

“Secondly,” said Crawford, without comment on his 
lordship’s condition, “Gage must withdraw his troops 
from Boston, and the port be allowed its former 
privileges.” 

“There you have me,” sighed the governor. “I have 
no jurisdiction over General Gage. He would probably 
treat any such suggestion from me as unwarranted 
impudence. I cannot regulate the actions of Gage, nor 
can any one else in Virginia.” 

“We can,” said Warren. “We are going to drive 
him out.” 

The governor ignored the threat. 

“But the situation in Boston is not as grave as it 
might appear,” he continued. “The British soldiers 
and the people of Boston are but brothers, and the good 
sense and mutual toleration shown on both sides have 
prevented any serious disturbance. It is plain that His 
Majesty’s government only means to scold Boston, as a 
father might chastise a beloved child, without making 
the punishment hurt. You will admit, gentlemen, that 
it would be a humiliating thing for the British Govern¬ 
ment to back down before a tiny Massachusetts village.” 

“Not so humiliating to back down as to be knocked 
down,” retorted the incorrigible Warren. 

The governor turned a pitying eye in the direction 
of his tormentor. 

“So far, then, we have only reached the recalling of 
the Assembly,” he said. 


AN ATTEMPT AT RECONCILIATION 255 

* * That, my lord, will do little if the injustice to Boston 
continues,” Crawford urged. “The burgesses will but 
reiterate their determination to stand beside the suffer¬ 
ing colony.” 

“Couldn’t a deputation from the Assembly be sent 
to Boston,” suggested Samuel Percy, a prominent tory, 
“instructed to consult with the Massachusetts leaders 
and then with General Gage? It might be successful.” 

“Such a deputation is under contemplation,” an¬ 
swered Warren, “and it certainly will be successful. 
There will be five thousand members, and they’ll carry 
guns and swords and other effective arguments.” 

“Mr. Warren,” said Crawford gently, “we are trying 
to make peace, not war. Heaven knows, the chances are 
sufficiently slight, and I cannot believe there is one 
gentleman here who wishes to see his sword dyed in the 
blood of an Englishman. ’ ’ 

“If the Assembly will appoint such a deputation,” 
said Dunmore, “I shall be willing to recommend it 
favorably to the Commander-in-chief. That, certainly, 
is in the province of the Governor of Virginia. Still, 
the general has orders which, like myself, he may not 
disobey. He can keep his troops from violence, as he has, 
so far, done; but he cannot withdraw them from the 
colony without His Majesty’s orders. However, the 
experiment is worth trying. That puts us two steps 
nearer to a reconciliation. What next? Major Pressley, 
you are one of us.” 

Pressley glanced around him carelessly. He had taken 
little apparent interest in the proceedings, and the cool¬ 
ness between him and his host was evident to all, for 
they were both too honest to dissemble. 

“My lord,” he said diffidently, “I am a soldier and a 
traveller, not a statesman nor an orator; and the straight¬ 
forward and open course which seems simple to me may 
appear otherwise to the trained diplomat. Nevertheless, 
an Englishman ought not to need urging in a matter 


256 


UNDER THE SKIN 


which concerns all Englishmen; and, as I left England 
later than most of you, and made more recent friendships 
in Virginia, it is possible that I more intimately under¬ 
stand the two countries than many here. 

“I know that the people of England are in utter 
ignorance of conditions in the colonies: the government 
of England insists in its demands, chiefly because it 
believes that the colonies will not insist in theirs. If the 
insistence on both sides continues, there can be but a 
single outcome, which I shudder to contemplate. 

“The very slightness of the bone of contention is, to 
me, its greatest gravity. Had England faced some 
sudden necessity, to meet which she must raise fifty 
million pounds, I have little doubt that the colonies 
would unitedly rise to her assistance and sacrifice whole¬ 
heartedly. Even the sponsors of the obnoxious tea-tax, 
the cause of all this unpleasantness, admit that the 
amount it could bring under the best conditions could 
not cover the cost of collecting it. Naturally, the 
ordinary, unobservant Englishman cannot see why 
America should hesitate to pay a tax which leaves the 
commodity cheaper than it was before it was taxed; and 
he cannot believe the opposition serious. That is because 
the Englishman does not realize his own characteristics. 

“Much travel has enabled me to see my countrymen 
with less partial eyes. The Englishman is essentially 
vain, conceited, self-conscious. He can excuse injury, 
but not insult. Knock him down, and he’ll probably 
rise up your friend: belittle his dignity and you’ve made 
a life-time enemy. And the Virginian is in all things 
an Englishman. 

“The tea-tax is not an injury to the colonies,—for, 
as your lordship knows, it is not paid, yet there is no 
shortage of tea. It is not even a manly insult: it is a 
slight. It says to the colonists, ‘Who are you? We do 
not recognize you. You have no right to speak to us.’ 


AN ATTEMPT AT RECONCILIATION 257 

And this sort of language no Englishman in any part 
of the world will tolerate. 

“Therefore, the colonies will not yield their demand, 
and England must withdraw her order. There is no 
alternative. War? Rebellion? What would rebellion 
mean? 

“Would the people of England draw their swords 
against the men, and against the sons of the men who 
wrote such names as Cressy, Blenheim and Quebec in 
their history ? But suppose they did. Suppose the 
overwhelming odds of England came down upon the 
colonies. Can the sons of the men whose life-blood won 
us Agincourt and Poitiers, the sons of men who, a dozen 
strong or a hundred strong, attacked the wild forests 
and wilder savages of the new world and won a continent 
from them, can the sons of these daring Englishmen 
learn to realize when they are outnumbered ? 

“The men who climbed the steeps of Abraham, the 
men who stood behind Clive at Plassey, might have given 
up the conflict, might have surrendered, and hoped for 
mercy. And England, disappointed but forgiving, 
might have received them. The colonist who draws his 
sword against his king can never surrender, can never 
expect mercy, can have no king and no country. With 
him it must be victory or death in the truest sense. And 
he will fight as desperate Englishmen in all times have 
fought, doggedly to the death. England, rising in her 
might, can exterminate the colonies: she cannot conquer 
them. 

“For the colonies will unite, my lord. Virginia and 
Maryland, New York and Connecticut may have their 
differences and their jealousies, but they will unite 
against a common fate. Judge Englishmen by English¬ 
men. No country is more torn by rival jealousies and 
contending factions than our England, yet when the 
confusion is at its highest, no foreign foe has menaced 


258 


UNDER THE SKIN 


our shores but has found a united England to oppose 
him. Will colonial Englishmen do less? 

“Shall we see it come to that, my lord? Will France 
and Spain and the nations we have humbled rub their 
hands in glee, and laugh at the ruin of the kingdom 
their mighty navies, their finest armies, their shrewdest 
diplomacy dared not oppose, torn to shreds by its own 
internal strife? Will they stand idle by, or will they 
not rather also strike a blow when all England is too 
busy fighting England to defend herself? 

‘ 1 Then England must yield to the demands of English¬ 
men. Then all Britons must again combine to ward off 
the common foe. Why wait till so much mischief is 
done ? Why not combine now, when England may assure 
peace by yielding so little of what gains her nothing ? 

“I cannot agree with you, my lord, that England 
would be humiliated by yielding to the demands of a tiny 
Massachusetts village. Who admits justice yields 
nothing; and the valor of England needs no vindication. 
Massachusetts and Virginia know that England can 
fight: let them know T , also, that England can be just,— 
can even be magnanimous. 

“I could not so carefully observe the trouble without 
also seeing the remedy,—a natural and simple one. His 
Majesty’s ministers do not believe that the colonies will 
oppose them. The men upon w 7 hose reports they act 
have deluded them into the belief that the opposition 
is feeble and localized. But you know, my lord, and I 
know, that the colonists will oppose the troops of 
England to the death. 

“Let the thirteen colonial governors tell Lord North 
the truth. Tell him that his armies can kill, but cannot 
convince, the colonists,—that his insistence will but 
produce an orgy of blood and hate and suffering. 

“Make a full report of the actual conditions in Vir¬ 
ginia, my lord, and forward it at once to the king. 
Report to the other colonial governors what you have 


AN ATTEMPT AT RECONCILIATION 259 

done, and urge them to do the same thing. Insist upon 
them that it is the only means of averting useless blood¬ 
shed. The name of Murray is too well known for 
slanderous tongues to attribute your frankness to 
cowardice or self-interest. England will believe you. 

“Meanwhile, the colonial assemblies will, likewise, 
consult with one another, and decide to await the out¬ 
come of your efforts. While awaiting His Majesty’s 
orders, Gage and his troops may remain in Massa¬ 
chusetts; and, provided they commit no outrage, there 
shall be peace. That is the only way left open: God 
forbid it be too late. 

“I appeal to you, Lord Dunmore, in the name of 
Englishmen on both sides of the Atlantic. It takes a 
brave man to recede from his former position; to admit 
that he was in error: but the house from which you come 
has never bred a coward. Will posterity say that the 
greatest of the Murrays built a greater England with the 
Atlantic a tiny lake in its centre ? ’ ’ 

A breathless silence awaited the governor’s answer, 
but he spoke no word. 

Colonel Innisdale rose slowly from his seat. His 
steps were firm and measured, his head held high, and 
his eyes glinted with fight like the lion when it defies 
the world. He passed round the lower end of the long 
table, and held out his hand to the Englishman. 

“Major Pressley,” he said, “permit me to tender you 
my humble apology for any slight, coldness or indignity 
you may have suffered from any of my house.” 

Pressley wrung his hand warmly. 

“They are forgotten, Colonel,” he answered. “An 
Englishman cannot do more. ’ ’ 

The episode, dramatic as it was unexpected, passed. 
Dunmore hardly seemed to notice it. Major Crawford 
turned to him. 

“Virginia has had her say, my lord,” he said. “She 
can suggest nothing more.” 


260 


UNDER THE SKIN 


If the governor heard him, there was nothing to show 
it. Only his fitful eyes betrayed the struggle in his 
bosom. At last, he turned with a weary sigh. 

“ Colonel Innisdale, will you let us have pens and 
paper. Major Pressley will aid me to prepare such 
reports and letters as may serve the purpose. If this 
brings dishonor upon the name of Murray, heaven and 
Virginia be my witness, it is done in the interest of 
England.” 

The gentlemen slowly dispersed, conversing in little 
groups. The crisis had passed. North could not resist 
the arguments of his thirteen colonial governors, or, 
for that matter, of five; and there was no doubt that 
the majority, if not all of them, would follow Dunmore’s 
lead. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


THE WARRANT. 

Conditions rapidly settled down to normal. All 
parties seemed satisfied with the proposed settlement, and 
the sturdy colonists felt that they had won a victory. 

Dunmore kept his word, and at once sent letters to 
the governors of all the other colonies, as well as a frank 
report to the king. An order recalling the Assembly 
was issued, and Colonel Innisdale dispatched a messenger 
of his own to Philadelphia, to inform Henry and Pendle¬ 
ton and Washington and their companions of the success 
of their efforts. Throughout Virginia there was general 
rejoicing. 

Perhaps there was only one man in the colony whose 
spirits did not share in the general elation. Arthur 
Pressley had thoroughly forgiven both Oliver and 
Colonel Innisdale, but he felt that his remaining longer 
at Innismount was useless and inconvenient. Miss Innis¬ 
dale had yielded nothing to his suit, and he was conscious 
of the pain his reverting to the subject caused her. And 
his very presence was to her a reminder of what was 
uppermost in his heart. He felt that he must leave, 
and that now, when his star was in the ascendant, was 
the most fitting time. 

Innisdale would not hear of his going, but the young 
man was determined. He had spent a wonderful time 
in Virginia, he said, but he had heard no word of 
Franklyn Everleigh. He intended to visit Philadelphia, 
New York and Boston, in the hope of finding the man 
he had sought for years. After that, he would return 
to England, and, probably, undertake a second African 

261 


262 UNDER THE SKIN 

expedition. He set his departure for Monday, a week 
ahead. 

The messenger Innisdale had sent to Philadelphia had 
not yet returned. The double journey could not be 
accomplished in less than six days at the earliest; he 
was expected on Thursday. 

Early that morning, Major Crawford came over to 
Innismount, anxious for the first news of the decision of 
the general Congress. It was three o’clock when the 
bearer arrived, horse and man barely able to drag them¬ 
selves along. Alec led him into the colonel’s office, where 
the two friends sat. There was a letter for the master. 

Innisdale hastily tore the envelope open, and his face 
went pale as he read the few fateful lines. Dunmore’s 
attempt at reconciliation had come too late. British 
troops had fired upon Massachusetts minute-men at 
Lexington, killing eight, and wounding ten others, then 
had tried to sack and burn Concord. The sword had, at 
last, been drawn in bitter earnest: over two hundred 
and fifty troops, and nearly a hundred colonists had 
been slain. Virginia, through her representatives in 
Congress, had promised five thousand men. Would 
Colonel Innisdale and his friends begin at once to arrange 
for such a force. 

The old colonel silently handed the letter to Crawford, 
and, without a word, walked across to the open window. 
For fifteen minutes he stood there, gazing into space 
with clouded eyes, and Crawford knew him too well to 
venture a remark. 

At length he turned with a deep sigh. 

“I had rather drawn my sword and plunged it into 
my own breast,” he said, “than lift it against my king.” 

Crawford did not answer: the remark had hardly been 
intended for him. Innisdale poured himself a stiff glass 
of brandy from a flagon on the shelf, then pushed the 
liquor towards his friend. 


THE WARRANT 263 

There was another deathly pause. Innisdale rose at 
last. 

“Come, Major; I'm ready/’ he said with a steady 
voice. “We are rebels. We have no country, and we 
have no king. May God help us.” 

“Innisdale,” Crawford returned slowly, “you and I 
have fought by the side of British soldiers,—we were 
once British soldiers ourselves. War is their game. 
Nothing less than British soldiers can oppose them. No 
undisciplined Virginian rabble shall be meat to their 
slaughter. When we lead a company against them, it 
must be thoroughly trained, and fully equipped. What 
can you do ? ” 

“I have no country, and no king,” Innisdale repeated. 
“All I have is for the Cause. Innismount can raise 
three hundred men. All can shoot; a score of them 
have faced the enemy. The estate can equip a thousand 
others, if they can be found, and provision them for an 
indefinite period.” 

‘ 1 There are a hundred white men on my plantation, ’ ’ 
said Crawford. “That’s four hundred, the nucleus of 
an army. To-morrow we’ll assemble them. Perry’s 
Crossing, on the far end of my estate, is an excellent 
site for a camp; easy for volunteers to reach. I shall 
undertake their training, if you’ll let me. The word 
must be sent broadcast. ’ ’ 

“I shall dispatch messengers at once/’ Innisdale 
answered. “Every available man is necessary. Word 
must also be sent to His Excellency that the action of 
Gage has cancelled our agreement. We must act like 
honorable Englishmen, even if we are no longer that.” 

Details were soon arranged with a precision which only 
the military training of the two leaders made possible. 
Before night-fall, the rebellion in Virginia had taken 
definite form, and messengers had been sent to the 
principal leaders throughout the colony, giving them the 
instructions from Philadelphia, and the plans afoot. 


264 


UNDER THE SKIN 


Dunmore, who had already been apprised of the clash 
at Lexington, replied to the colonel’s letter frankly. 
Gage’s action had, he admitted, nullified the letter of the 
agreement, but since its spirit had been to secure peace, 
and since the affair in Massachusetts had taken place 
before word of that agreement could have reached 
Boston, he urged Innisdale and his friends still to main¬ 
tain the peace. England might disavow Gage’s rash act, 
and make reparation; while any sort of a rising in 
Virginia would at once make such a thing impossible. 
The mere assembling of colonial troops without the 
governor’s sanction, he pointed out, could not be accepted 
in England but as an act of treason. 

Long before the governor’s reply could be received, 
however, the “treason” of the Virginian leaders had 
been an accomplished fact. Early next morning work 
had been commenced on the encampment at Perry’s 
Crossing, and, from various quarters of the colony 
recruits were pouring in, most of them hardy fighters 
who had not yielded to the French, the Indians or the 
wilderness. 

No man felt more keenly the acuteness of the situation 
than the Governor of Virginia. He well saw the whole¬ 
heartedness with which the colonists rose, and knew 
that he was powerless to oppose them. Yet, as the king’s 
representative, it was his duty to maintain order and 
loyalty. The available supply of gun-powder he had 
already secured, yet this served little purpose. He could 
not make up his mind what new step to take. 

It was at this juncture that his course was destined 
to be directed by a will stronger than his own, and by 
a mind less scrupulous. The man who was to give the 
initial impulse to the impending catastrophe was no 
other than the wily Johnson Culberson. 

Culberson reached the governor’s palace on Saturday 
morning, and at once sought an interview with Dunmore. 

“Why, Mr. Culberson,” said the governor, “I did not 


THE WARRANT 


265 


expect to see you in Williamsburg at this time. When 
last heard of, you were scalping Indians up in the 
mountains/’ 

‘‘True, my lord,” Culberson answered with a suave 
bow, “but when, nearer to the seat of government, there 
are traitors with blacker hearts, and baser designs 
against their sovereign, my sword is ever at the service 
of my master. I have come, my lord, to volunteer my 
services.” 

“You are, indeed, welcome,” the governor replied, 
“for never was Virginia in sorer need of loyal English¬ 
men. Yet, what can we do?” 

“What can we do?” retorted Culberson with a sneer 
that was intended to be caustic without being impolite. 
“What can we do, when traitorous demagogues preach 
vile treason at every country cross-roads; when malevo¬ 
lent leaders assemble a base gang of the rabble of 
Virginia on their estates, to learn to march and shoot? 
My lord, it is not for a humble subject to say what you 
should do; but whatever it is should be done before the 
rebellion becomes organized.” 

“Yet, Mr. Culberson,” returned Dunmore, “any 
hasty act on our part may but precipitate the conflict. 
We are still hoping to settle our differences.” 

“It cannot be done, my lord,” Culberson answered. 
“Has Virginia learnt nothing from Boston? The ring¬ 
leaders there might have been easily secured a year ago, 
and the resistance broken up, but Gage hesitated in the 
hope of a reconciliation, and when at last he was forced 
to act, he found organized resistance with which he has 
been unable to deal. And Gage led trained British 
troops.” 

“Just so,” said Dunmore. “How much worse, then, 
should we fare, with only militia, whose loyalty is open 
to doubt?” 

“Yet, Your Excellency, the opposition in Virginia is 
not yet organized, as it will soon be, if given the chance. 


266 


UNDER THE SKIN 


There is but one influential leader in the colony, with 
three or four willing and misguided lieutenants in his 
hands. Get them out of the way, and the rabble will 
immediately disperse. ’ ’ 

“You refer to Innisdale,” said the governor. “I 
forgot that there was some unpleasant passage between 
you.” 

“My own injuries are forgotten in the service of my 
king,” Culberson answered. “And, indeed, I have a 
tender spot in my heart for the kind, but hot-headed, 
old man. Yet, were he my own brother, I could not 
excuse his actions. His Majesty’s representative cannot 
sit still, deterred by considerations of personal regard, 
while his enemies prepare force to oppose the king’s 
orders. ’ ’ 

“It is not the consideration of personal regard that 
deters me,” replied the governor. “I hesitate to take 
the awful responsibility for possible blood-shed, when 
there is any other chance of a settlement.” 

“It is blood-shed that I am urging your lordship to 
forestall,” said Culberson. “It is kindness to Colonel 
Innisdale and his handful of misguided followers that I 
am suggesting. Seize the ring-leaders now, and the 
rebellion will be thwarted. Before they can come to 
trial, the country will be at peace. This, with the in¬ 
fluence the colonel possesses both in Virginia and in 
England, and your own good word, will probably secure 
him his liberty on his promise of good behavior, and 
your prompt action will have prevented a tragedy.” 

“There is reason in your argument,” said the waver¬ 
ing Dunmore. “But, can we be sure that the arrest of 
Innisdale and Crawford would put an end to the dis¬ 
content? There are others as radical as they.” 

“True, my lord,” Culberson admitted. “In every 
pack, there are always mongrels who yap loud and long, 
but have no grip. Innisdale has more influence than 
any other man in Virginia to-day. What is even more 


THE WARRANT 


267 


important, he lias the wealth to make his threats good. 
Randolph, Washington and Henry are in Philadelphia, 
and may easily be seized. Take Innisdale and Crawford, 
with the English malcontent, Pressley, who is edging 
them on to rebellion, hold the estates of these leaders in 
the authority of the Crown, and you deprive the rascals 
of any means of sustenance. A rebellion cannot succeed 
without funds.” 

Dunmore puckered his brow in deep thought. 

“If I knew that this could be done,” he said at 
length, “if I knew that it would secure peace, I should 
have no alternative but attempt it. Yet, heaven be my 
witness, I should, in the end, try to save Innisdale at the 
risk of my own head, and to see his property returned 
to him. He has been a gentleman, and my friend.” 

“It can be done, my lord,” urged Culberson. “Take 
the colonel quietly at his home, disperse his gang, and 
hold him till the country is quiet. It is the only course 
left to you if you would do your duty to your king. 
Colonel Innisdale is also my friend, and I am indebted 
to him for many benefits which I shall not forget, but 
I cannot let my own feelings stand between me and my 
loyalty to my sovereign.” 

“It is a difficult task,” said the governor with a sigh. 
“Innisdale is a soldier, with a quick temper, and draws 
his sword hastily. I doubt whether he would suffer 
arrest quietly.” 

“If Your Excellency would entrust me with the 
mission,” said Culberson, “I should undertake to carry 
it out to your satisfaction. It would be a painful duty, 
but duty is always painful; and no one can know the 
colonel better than I do.” 

“I could not do that, Culberson, highly as I value your 
loyal offer,” Dunmore replied. “You have been his 
servant. England, as well as Virginia, would abhor the 
indignity.” 

“You are super-sensitive, my lord,” Culberson an- 


268 


UNDER THE SKIN 


swered,—“too keenly Virginian to be thoroughly 
British. Innisdale, though what might be termed an 
aristocrat of Virginia if there were such a thing, is of 
no better blood than I; and the trifling distinction of 
circumstances cannot be recognized in England. A loyal 
soldier of the king certainly might do his duty without 
enquiring into the lineage of every traitor he confronts. 
Shall your lordship report to England that you allowed 
the rebellion to acquire impetus because you did not have 
earls and dukes to arrest the ring-leaders? The situa¬ 
tion, my lord, is one which warrants immediate action. 
A day or two may turn discontent into open revolt, and 
before troops can be transported from England, irre¬ 
trievable mischief may be done. Of course, I cannot 
direct your lordship’s policy. I but offer the devoted 
service of a loyal Englishman; if you have a servant 
more trustworthy, or better able to accomplish the diffi¬ 
cult task, I am willing to yield my place to him.” 

Dunmore pulled fiercely at his mustaches. 

“Culberson,” he said at length, “I have half a mind 
to try the remedy you suggest. The situation in Virginia 
is becoming desperate, and the governor cannot allow 
private individuals in the colony to raise and equip their 
own armies. It were a dangerous precedent, even were 
the end peaceful. England shall not say John Murray 
failed in his duty to his sovereign. ’ ’ 

“It is the only course left open to you, my lord,” the 
other answered. “And you’ll honor me with the 
commission ? ’ ’ 

Dunmore tried to read the green, shifty eyes. Cul¬ 
berson was, plainly, eager to undertake the task; yet, 
it was perfectly natural that a loyal and ambitious 
Englishman should wish to render some conspicuous 
service to his king; and, if his plans went right, this 
would be the only chance. 

“I shall not deny you the honor,” he said, “but only 
on one condition. There must be no violence. Neither 


THE WARRANT 


269 


C-olonel Innisdale nor any of his friends must suffer any 
injury or indignity; and Miss Innisdale must not be 
molested nor inconvenienced. ’ ’ 

“Your wishes shall be executed to the letter, my lord/' 
Culberson answered. “I promise on the word of an 
Englishman. You will give me a warrant for the 
colonel’s arrest.” 

“It shall be prepared immediately,” said the governor. 
“And England shall know with what fidelity you served 
your king.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


FAREWELL. 

Let not the bitter bate of succeeding years becloud 
the issues that lay behind the conflict which separated 
England from her American colonies. It was an in¬ 
evitable step in the evolution of British freedom. 

Had Columbus never left his modest Genoese home, 
the War of American Independence would have been 
fought in Devon, or Kent, or Yorkshire. Twice before, 
British monarchs had tried to stem the tide of freedom. 
On the first occasion, the English people summoned 
John of Anjou to Runnymeade, and the only Plantagenet 
who was both weakling and coward, and whose single 
virtue was craftiness, saw too w 7 ell the temper of his 
clients to haggle long over terms. 

The second occasion was more disastrous. Charlie 
Stuart stood in the path of the descending avalanche, 
determined to block its course. But the avalanche rolled 
heedlessly on, and, for a time, England had no king. 

The ascension to the British throne of any sovereign 
who desired to curb the ever-growung freedom of his 
subjects, was bound to produce another crisis; and when 
the third George proved such a monarch, and surrounded 
himself with weak-willed courtiers, and advisers eager to 
flatter their king and pander to his vain lust for power, 
the stage seemed set for the final scene. That the first 
clash came in that Britain which was farthest from the 
seat of government, but saved the royal dynasty of 
England. 

Here was no international strife. Here was a struggle 
in which Englishmen like William Pitt, and Matthew 
Innisdale, and Lord Rockingham, and George Washing- 

270 


FAREWELL 


271 


ton, and Edmund Burke, and Patrick Henry, differed 
honestly from other Englishmen like Lord North, and 
Lord Dunmore, and Lord Thurlow, and Lord Gower, 
and Samuel Johnson, and Francis Bernard; while still 
other Englishmen, like Charles Lee, and Johnson Cul¬ 
berson, and Benedict Arnold, thought nothing of princi¬ 
ple, and strove only for their own selfish ends. 

Two events of later date were to dignify the conflict 
with an appearance of internationalism. The first was 
when the autocratic Brunswick w r ho wore the crown 
Europe had learnt to respect upon the mightier brows 
of Coeur-de-Lion and Elizabeth Tudor, finding that 
Englishmen declined to butcher Englishmen at his 
demand, hired an army of his own countrymen to 
chastise his British subjects. 

The second, and deciding, event was when France, 
England’s natural foe for seven centuries, drew the 
sw-ord to aid the rebelling colonists. Then it w r as that 
the lethargic Englishman of England, scenting his 
habitual enemy as a cat might smell a mouse, yawned 
from his repose, stretched himself lazily, and, reaching 
his rifle where it lay rusting on its hook, trooped off to 
his accustomed deeds of valor, under the banner of 
Coote, or of Hastings, or of Rodney; but not of Clinton 
and Cornwallis and Howe, who slaughtered his own 
countrymen. 

As yet, there could be no thought of the separation 
of Englishmen from the government of England. True, 
a few of the most hot-headed and irresponsible radicals 
called out for a colonial government in which West¬ 
minster was disregarded; but so, for countless centuries, 
hot-headed men had denounced their rulers when out of 
earshot, and then returned to voiceless submission. The 
wisest men on both sides of the ocean felt that one side, 
or both, must eventually yield, the trouble be, somehow, 
patched up, and the machinery of government once more 
proceed in its accustomed manner. 


272 


UNDER THE SKIN 


Such an one was Arthur Pressley. He knew that the 
government must yield in the end, since the rebels dared 
not yield, and he could see no reason why the tension 
should be allowed to continue. 

Plans for his departure from Innismount had been 
completed. He had so far modified his programme as to 
decide to hurry at once to Boston. Gage must by this 
time have received Dunmore’s communication. Pressley 
hoped to convince him of the wisdom of the governor’s 
course, and to prevail upon him to disavow the action of 
Pitcairn, withdraw his troops, and make peace with the 
people, or, at least, a truce, till he could learn His 
Majesty’s pleasure. 

Supper that last Sunday evening was sad and silent. 
Oliver was in camp at Perry’s Crossing, where every 
able-bodied white man on the plantation had been mus¬ 
tered ; and the three who sat at the quiet table had each 
his own problem to occupy his mind. 

Pressley explained his plan to visit General Gage’s 
headquarters. 

“Any scheme which may produce honorable peace is 
worth trying,” Innisdale answered calmly, “but I 
confess I have little faith in Gage. While our reports 
of the clash in Massachusetts are incomplete, every 
indication is that the troops are following careful direc¬ 
tions. Even Gage can hardly retrace his steps now 
without orders from Lord North, and North can only 
do that by discrediting Gage. The volunteers of 
Virginia must be kept ready for any development.” 

“Keep them ready, by all means, Colonel,” said 
Pressley, “but, for heaven’s sake, do nothing rash. Get 
all the details of the situation in Massachusetts before 
you take the final step.” 

“We shall do nothing,” Innisdale replied, “till we 
have word from Philadelphia. Colonel Washington is a 
man of experience: we shall expect leadership from 
him.” 


FAREWELL 


273 


“And if it come to open rebellion, Major Pressley/’ 
Beatrice asked with an interest she failed to conceal, ‘ ‘ if 
your efforts at mediation fail, and the sword be actually 
drawn, what shall you do?” 

Pressley looked into the tender black eyes, as if for 
direction. 

“If it come to war, Miss Innisdale,—if England fight 
against Englishmen, what should an English soldier do ? ” 

She flushed, as if the words conveyed a hidden 
meaning. 

“Your duty,” she faltered back. “Let honor be your 
guide. Another cannot advise you.” 

He sat silent, lost in thought. No one spoke: but new 
dreams had been awakened,—three new dreams. 

Colonel Innisdale rose from the table. 

“You will permit me,” he said. “I have important 
matters to arrange, and after that a long conference with 
Wilson. If you care to join us in the office later, Major 
Pressley, or both of you, you may do so. Otherwise, we 
shall meet in the morning before you leave.” 

Pressley and Miss Innisdale also rose. It was the first 
evening they had been left so completely to themselves. 
The freedom was embarrassing. 

The Englishman stopped her as she moved in the 
direction of the parlor. 

“Miss Innisdale,” he said, “this is the last time I 
shall see you, for I shall be away in the morning before 
you are up. Is the garden forbidden?” 

Her lips quivered, but framed no word. The color 
came and went in her cheeks. She swayed lightly, 
steadied herself, then offered her arm. 

He led her gently down the stairs and across the lawn. 
The full Virginian moon shone down on them as brightly 
as it had done on that night ages ago,—or was it yester¬ 
day?—when their lips had touched, and he had dreamt 
his heaven had come. 

They reached the garden gate, and entered. The 


274 


UNDER THE SKIN 


ground felt holy to his tread. He led her towards a 
seat half-hidden among clustering roses. 

“Not there,” she pleaded softly. “Please. Let me 
forget. ’ ’ 

She pointed to the denser shade, where his eyes might 
not read hers. He went. 

He sat beside her, but his heart was pulsing too 
strongly for him to speak now,—as he would speak. She 
welcomed his silence. 

‘ ‘ Miss Innisdale, ’ ’ he said at length, when he felt that 
his voice would be strong enough to be level, “you have 
made my stay in Virginia extremely happy. I wish I 
knew how I might thank you.” 

“Don’t try.” Her voice sounded unnatural to her in 
spite of all her efforts. She hoped he would not notice 
it. “Don’t try. I have got more out of it than you.” 

“No,” he answered almost soberly. “I know my 
presence has made you miserable these last weeks. I 
know it is not fair for me to remain to inflict a torture 
upon you which you are too generous to resent. I am 
sorry I love you—no, by heaven, I’m not sorry for 
that;—I’m sorry I can’t conceal my love, and that the 
knowledge of it makes you unhappy. But we part 
friends.” 

“Friends.” She whispered the word dreamily, and 
laid her hand in his. “We part friends. I shall ever 
remember that. ’ ’ 

“It will ever be my happiest thought in the dreary 
days that are ahead, ’ ’ he answered. 

“Why dreary, my friend?” she chided. “Forget this 
mad chapter in your life. You have talent, courage, 
wealth. Forget the cruel, heartless child who toyed with 
your noble affection, then tossed it back to you crumpled 
and broken. Forgive and pity, but do not remember 
her. Seek another worthier of you.” 

‘ ‘ Hush, Beatrice ! ’ ’ He tried in vain to check her 
self-accusation. “You are not that. Do you think I’m 


FAREWELL 


275 


blind? That which separates us is not you, but fate. 
Beatrice, I know you care. 1 must not stay to tempt you 
to dishonor.” 

She shuddered, though the night was warm. 

“I should not have come,” she said. “I did not know 
I was so weak,—and so selfish.” 

‘‘I shall take you back now, dear; and perhaps I shall 
never see you again. But I want you to make me one 
promise before we part. It is this: Should the condition 
which holds us apart ever cease to exist, whenever or 
wherever that may be, send me a word. I shall keep in 
touch with your father or your brother, and it will be 
easy for you to learn where I am. You will not think 
it demeaning, dear. Please promise me.” 

“I promise,” she answered. “But do not wait for, 
nor expect, such a word. It will never come. And now, 
my friend, good-bye. May heaven make you happy, and 
keep you the noble, pure and generous friend you have 
proved yourself to an unfortunate girl.” 

He pressed her quivering hand in his. It was cold 
and nerveless. He could not see her half-averted face, 
but he heard the sharp hissing of her breath, and saw 
the quick rising and falling of her bosom. He knew she 
suffered, knew she loved him, knew fate between them 
was inflexible; and he loved her more, because she loved 
honor rather than her own happiness. He could not draw 
out her suffering longer. He pressed his warm lips to 
the hand he held, and rose silently. 

She hesitated, as if too w T eak to stand. He helped her 
to her feet, and turned towards the house. 

He saw her eyes in the brighter moonlight, dry and 
sparkling. Her lips were tightly compressed; her cheeks 
were ashy pale,—ghastly where the moonbeams struck. 

The long and plaintive waul of a cat broke the dead 
silence. She shivered, and turned her head from his 
gaze. Another cat answered the call, then all was still; 
save the measured crunching of their feet upon the 


276 


UNDER THE SKIN 


pebbled walk, and the mad pulsing of their two hearts 
that could not live without each other, yet could not live 
together for that which lay between them. 

She could not trust her lips to speak. She reached 
the door, and once more put forth her hand for him to 
kiss, but she kept her gaze averted. She ascended the 
stairs slowly as if in pain, carefully protecting her 
hallowed hand from contact with baser things. She 
reached her room, and slammed the door behind her. 
She raised the hand, and pressed against her lips the 
burning spot his parting kiss had consecrated. Her self- 
control burst with a snap. A torrent of tears welled 
from her heart. 

This was what HONOR meant to her;—a broken 
heart; a wound time could never heal. 


CHAPTER XL. 


TRAPPED. 

During the weeks following the arrival from England 
of Oliver Innisdale and his friend, Fanny Morgan found 
her immediate attendance on her mistress less indis¬ 
pensable. 

Hardly regarded as a slave by Beatrice, she soon found 
that this change of situation left her with an unusual 
amount of leisure, for which she had little use. Most 
of this she devoted to any of the negroes who happened 
to be ill, while she was also able to spend more time with 
the young children. 

The friendship between her and Fidelia had ripened 
considerably, and, even in the Great House, Pearl was 
often her companion. But the warmest attachment she 
had made was to the devoted Renjy, now known as 
Sambo to all on the estate. 

The dog-like devotion of Renjy to his former mistress 
had never changed. She was still the Princess of 
Kubanda to him; and never by word or action did he 
attempt to remind her of the change which had come 
between them, iior offered towards her any familiarity 
which the society of Bakinji could have resented. Every 
negro on the plantation knew that Sambo and Miss 
Fanny were good friends and nothing more. 

A field-slave, it was not the lot of Renjy to see visitors 
to Innismount except by accident; and Fanny had never 
informed him that the white man he had conducted to 
the coast,—the white man who was the indirect cause 
of his own captivity,—was now a guest there. She 
feared that the lad, in an effort to save her from her 
fate, might disclose her identity to Pressley; and this 

277 


278 


UNDER THE SKIN 


humiliation she was unable to bear. It was, therefore, 
with relief that she learnt from her mistress that the 
Englishman was preparing to depart. 

On the Sunday evening when the three sat to their 
gloomy supper,—the last supper that Pressley should 
eat at Innismount,—Fanny Morgan w T as not needed in 
the dining-room, and leisurely strolled the grounds. 
Soon she saw little Pearl running towards her. 

‘‘Mummy want ’oo, Miss Fan’,’’ lisped the child. 
“Come wid me.” 

She had not seen Fidelia for several days. She took 
the girl in her arm, and walked towards the modest cabin 
at the far end of the settlement. Fidelia met her at the 
door. 

“W’a’s come o’ you, Miss Fanny?” she asked. “I 
ain’t seen you now never so long.” 

“Oh, just busy,” Fanny answered, “and trying not 
to make you tired of me. Our visitor will be going to¬ 
morrow, and then I shall have still less time.” 

“Oh la! An’ I been gwine beg you spen’ ti-night wid 
me,” said Fidelia. “I ain’t feelin’ so well nor never.” 

“I’m sorry,” Fanny replied. “I can spend a couple 
of hours, but I must return, lest I’m wanted. Come let 
me put you to bed. I shall look after the children.” 

“Lawks, Miss Fanny, I ain’t so bad as all dat. But 
do, stay wid me dis one night, Miss Fanny; I can’t let 
you go back, now you’s come.” 

“Why, Fidelia, you know I couldn’t stay without 
Miss Betty’s permission. And I couldn’t ask that with¬ 
out good reasons.” 

“Miss Fanny, you been kind to me, an’ I want to be 
kind to you.” Fidelia spoke with a fierceness which 
belied her proffer of kindness. “But ef you don’t stay 
wid me ti-night, I ain’t nebber gwine speak to you 
no mo’.” 

Fanny Morgan looked up at the woman questioningly. 


TRAPPED 279 

What is it you fear, Fidelia ? ” she asked. ‘ 1 Tell me. 
Is he coming back?” 

“No, no; not dat. He is kind—now—to me. I don’t 
fear him. It is for you I fear. ’ ’ 

“For me? How? What?” 

“I dunno. I jes’ fear, dat’s all. You’ll stay?” 

“You haven’t told me all, Fidelia; and that’s not 
being kind.” 

“Laws ’a’ massy, Miss Fanny, I can’t tell you nothin’. 
They’ll kill me ef they ever knowed a word of it crossed 
my blessed lips.” 

“They’ll kill you, Fidelia? Who is theyV* 

“Mass’r Culberson, an’ my half-brother Jack, an’ a 
whole bunch o’ niggers an’ po’ whites,” cried Fidelia in 
real terror. 

“Culberson?” gasped Fanny. “Has he been here?” 

“Yes,” Fidelia answered, the truth wrung from her. 
“They’s been here planning ’bout it. Ti-night them 
gwine surround the home house, an’ kill eberybody what 
in it; an’ I don’t want them to kill you.” 

“But why? What for?” Fanny demanded. 

“I dunno,” said Fidelia. “I been listenin’ troo the 
crack o’ the do’, and dat’s all I caughted.” 

“Then I must go,” Fanny declared. “I must warn 
Miss Betty; I must save her.” 

“Please don’t go back, Miss Fanny,” cried Fidelia, 
clutching to the girl’s skirt. “Them is white people, an’ 
ef them dead I don’t loss nothin’; but ef you dead, I 
loss the one frien’ me an’ my po’ pickaninnies hab. An’ 
ef you tell her, them is gwine know dat I tol’ you, an’ 
them gwine kill me sho’.” 

“Don’t fear, Fidelia,” said Fanny, loosening the 
woman’s hold of her dress. “They shall never know 
that you saved us, and the mistress will reward you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Please, Miss Fanny, please-’ ’ 

A loud rap at the locked door cut short her entreaty. 

“For Gawd’s sake,” she cried, as her wild eyes rolled 



280 


UNDER THE SKIN 


helplessly around the room, “dere’s Mass’r Culberson 
now. In the back room, Miss Fanny, quick; don’t never 
let him fin’ you here. He’ll soon be gone. Yes, sah, I is 
cornin’, sah,” she continued as the knock was repeated 
more imperatively. “I is jes’ puttin’ Astrodoffogel to 
bed.” 

Fanny Morgan darted into the dark inner room, and 
a second later she heard the door opened to admit John¬ 
son Culberson. She found herself in a small chamber, 
piled with all kinds of litter and rubbish; with no win¬ 
dow, and only the single door by which she had entered. 
Near the door she brushed against a beer-barrel; her 
foot touched a small keg, possibly of nails; boards and 
logs leaned against the walls: in the farther corner she 
crouched behind a pile of empty boxes. 

“Your brother not here yet?” she heard Culberson’s 
gruff voice ask. 

“No sah,” Fidelia answered. “But he said he would 
be ’round.” 

“Come sit on my knee, girl, and kiss me. Haven’t 
you been longing to see me?” 

“I do be long, Mass’r Culberson, sah,” Fidelia 
stammered. “But—but Jack may be in any minute.” 

“Nonsense! Close the door; he must wait-” 

She felt mean, crouching in the darkness there, listen¬ 
ing to the words she was not intended to hear. And 
she would rather be flying across the lawn to her mistress 
with word of her impending danger. But there was no 
way out. 

“God, Fidelia,” growled Culberson, “I’m sorry 
you’re a nigger. If you weren’t, so help me, girl, you’d 
be something some day. Ah, well, what’s the use? Can’t 
make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, nor a duchess out 
of a black wench. But, so help me, girl, you’re going 
to be proud of your son some day, if you ever hear about 
him. I ’ll bring him up a man, if the whole dashed world 
stands in the way. ’ ’ 



TRAPPED 281 

“What?” gasped Fidelia. “You gwine tek my baby 
from me, sail?” 

“I'm going to take him away,” Culberson answered, 
“and bring him up like a white man’s son, and give him 
a w 7 hite man’s name, and nobody shall ever know that 
his grand-mother was as black as the queen of hell.” 

He stooped above the sleeping babe, and softly stroked 
the long, jet-black hair. 

“Sleep, boy,” he said gently. “You’ll wake to¬ 
morrow the son of a man whose future is assured.” 

His voice sounded almost kind. Fanny Morgan 
wondered whether there could be, after all, a tinge of 
humanity in this coarse brute. 

There came another knock; the door opened, and a 
third voice joined theirs. 

“Ah, Jack, here you are at last,” said Culberson. 
“Got everything fixed?” 

“Eb’ryt’ing ready, sah,” Jack answered, “an’ we 
waitin’ fe orders.” 

Culberson turned to the girl. 

“Leave us now, Fidelia. Jack and I have important 
matters to arrange.” 

She slid from the room, and closed the door behind 
her. But a convenient crack served her purpose 
sufficiently. 

Jack was an under-grown, prematurely aged, rat¬ 
faced mulatto, with a broad, flat forehead, deeply 
creased. His small, sinister gray eyes held a malicious 
gleam, and his narrow, thin-lipped mouth curved with 
a wicked sneer. He waited for his employer to speak. 

“Well, how many niggers did you secure?” Culberson 
asked when the door had closed behind Fidelia. 

“Twenty, sah,” Jack answered. “All good men.” 

“Twenty?” gasped Culberson. “Out of more than 
three hundred on the estate. How is that?” 

“I been keerful, sah, not to mention de matter to no 


282 


UNDER THE SKIN 


one what am likely to betray we plans to de marster. 
Twenty will be ’nuff.” 

“Enough/’ Culberson answered, “if we can keep the 
others from meddling. I have a dozen, and they are 
all w T hite men, who have tasted Indian blood. You 
promised these men their freedom?” 

“Yes, sah; jis’ lak you toD me. All what helps in dis 
undertakin’ an’ keeps dere tongues shut am to be free 
to-morrow marnin’; an’ w’en you tek charge o’ de 
plantation, I is to be de oberseer.” 

“Good, Jack. I shan’t forget. Now, the first thing 
is to see that the others don’t help Innisdale to resist us.” 

“Dem can’t resist, sah,” Jack declared. “We got 
dem soft, an’ dem won’t know nuttin’ tell dem fin’ 
demself tie up.” 

“Now, listen carefully to my instructions, Jack,” said 
Culberson slowly. “First, go to every negro cabin on 
the estate, except those of the twenty men you have 
engaged. Say that Wilson has sent you to inform them 
that he understands some of the slaves are planning to 
escape. Tell them he has men on guard all around, and 
any negro who leaves his cabin during the night, no 
matter for what reason, will be shot at sight without 
question. Make that good and strong; we don’t want 
them to come out against us. ’ ’ 

“All right, sah. I do dat right away.” 

“After that,” Culberson continued, “get your men 
together, and keep them behind your cabin till eleven 
o ’clock;—you have the watch I gave you ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, sah.” Jack grinned, and produced the trinket. 
‘ 1 ’Leben o ’clock is when de han ’ come yah an ’ yah ? ’ ’ 

“Right, Jack. When the hands come here and here,” 
—he pointed to the figures on the dial as Jack had done, 
—“bring your men quietly to the big tree back of the 
garden. I shall be waiting there for you.” 

“Yes, sah. An’ arter dat?” 

“I shall tell you then,” Culberson answered thought- 


TRAPPED 


283 


fully. “I shall probably let you make the arrest. If 
I send a white man, Innisdale may come quietly, and I 
don’t want him to do that.” 

“You don’t want him fe come, sah?” 

‘ ‘ Certainly not, ’ ’ Culberson returned sharply. ‘ ‘ Take 
Innisdale to Williamsburg, and the silly governor would 
liberate him in a few hours. They must offer resistance, 
and both Innisdale and his visitor must be killed by 
accident.” 

“His visitor, sah? You mean de Englishman, Major 
Pressley ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes, ” Culberson nodded. ‘ ‘ Pressley must not escape. 
He is the worst of the bunch. Miss Innisdale must be 
taken unhurt. I have made arrangements for getting 
her away. Impress those points on your men. If any 
one of them miscarries, we lose all. ’ ’ 

“Yes, sah. But you tol’ me de gubnor says you am 
not to harm Colonel Innisdale.” 

Culberson laughed harshly. 

“Never mind that, Jack,” he said. “Poor Dunmore 
will be so busy dodging the colonel’s friends that he 
won’t have time to vent his wrath on us. I shall take 
immediate possession of the estate in the name of Miss 
Innisdale, who shall beg for the protection of the hand 
she spurned; and possession, you know, is nine points 
of the law. ’ ’ 

“Yes, sah. But ’bout Major Pressley. How come 
him in dis?” 

The scowl of vindictive malice which shot across Cul¬ 
berson’s brow was too deep for the shallow Jack to read. 

“He must die,” snapped the white man; “he above 
all, or everything is spoilt. Whatever happens, don’t let 
Pressley escape. You showed your niggers how to handle 
a gun?” 

“Yes sah. I tek dem in de woods, an’ showed dem 
jis’ lak you showed me. But de powder what you guv 
us am done.” 


284 


UNDER THE SKIN 


‘ ‘ That’s all right, Jack. I have a small keg of powder 
in the back room there. Bring it with you when you 
come. That will be more than enough. Who sleep in 
the great house to-night?” 

“Dere’s Colonel Innisdale, sah, an’ de white English¬ 
man, an’ Miss Betty, an’ de two white maids, an’ Uncle 
Alec, an’ Aunt ’Lizbeth, an’ Fanny Morgan. Dat’s 
all.” 

“Fine,” said Culberson. “That Fanny Morgan is 
good game for you, Jack. If you can take her alive, 
she may be sent away with her mistress, and she shall 
be your share of the spoils. There’s another thing I 
want you to tell your men. The buildings must not be 
damaged. If it is necessary to break down a window or 
door, that can easily be repaired, but nothing more. 
Above all, see that no fire is started. I do not want to 
take possession of a pile of blackened embers.” 

Crouching in her corner, Fanny Morgan listened to 
the fiend’s plans with parted lips. Mention of the keg 
of gun-powder alarmed her. She remembered the small 
keg over which she had tripped. If they came to reclaim 
it, they would surely discover her; and there was no 
means of her getting out. 

She felt her way gingerly towards the keg. Her hand 
found the cork, lightly inserted. She pulled it out, and 
applied her nostrils to the opening. Sure enough, it was 
gun-powder. 

She sought for some safer place of concealment. Her 
hand touched the beer-barrel. A sudden thought seized 
her. 

She caught up the dipper and filled it with the liquid, 
then emptied it into the powder keg. Again and again 
she poured beer into the powder, till the small cask 
overflowed. She rammed in the cork as tightly as she 
dared, then slunk back behind a pile of lumber. 

“ It’s nine o ’clock now, ’ ’ she heard Culberson say. ‘ ‘ I 


TRAPPED 


285 

have other matters to arrange. Follow my instructions 
carefully, and don’t forget the powder.” 

She heard the door opened, heard him speak a few 
words with Fidelia, heard his footsteps softly crunching 
the grass as he went. 

“Ain't you is gwine too, Jack?” Fidelia asked as the 
other two re-entered the cabin. 

‘‘Presently,” Jack replied. “I is gwine tek a little 
barrel in de back room fe Mass’r Culberson.” 

“Why not leave it, an’ come back later?” she asked 
with apprehension. “It’s so much trouble toting it all 
’roun’ w r ith you.” 

“I is gwine tek it now,” Jack responded. “Da’s de 
orders, an’ a man mus’ alters obey orders.” 

“Oh, all right, Jack, you needn’t get huffed,” the girl 
answered. “I’ll fetch it out for you.” 

“Now, Fidelia, you jes’ don’t tech dat dere keg,” Jack 
expostulated sternly. “Females and childans should 
nebber handle dangerous combustiments. S’posen you 
let it explorate, what would I tell de marster?” 

He seized a candle, and approached the farther room. 

“Let me hold the candle for you, Jack,” Fidelia 
urged. “It’s dangerous.” 

“Gal, you leave me alone,” Jack answered scornfully. 
“I knows what I is doin’.” 

He rested the candle on a box, took a deep pull from 
the beer barrel, and then lifted the powder keg. 

But Fanny Morgan had overdone her work. The keg, 
wet from her recent ministrations, slipped from the 
man’s fingers. He sprang back to save his toes, staggered, 
steadied himself against the pile of lumber, and brought 
down the whole pile. Fannj^ Morgan stood exposed. 

“Wha’ you doin’ yah, you Fanny Morgan?” Jack 
gasped. “Listenin’ to wha’ we says?” 

“What you and Culberson say can concern me little,” 
Fanny answered calmly. “I wished to avoid meeting 


286 


UNDER THE SKIN 


him, and came in here when he arrived. Your talk can 
be none of my business.” 

‘‘You lie; gosh dang it, you lie,” roared Jack. “You 
am in yah spyin’ on we. But you won’t nebber go back 
to tell wha’ you hear. We is gwine kill all o’ you, an’ 
I might jis’ as well begin right yah.” 

He drew a long knife from his belt, and poised it 
over the girl, grinning with fiendish venom. 

Fanny Morgan did not flinch. Her eyes seemed to read 
and challenge the weak-willed, vacillating creature before 
her. 

‘ ‘ If you think, ’ ’ she said firmly, with a taunting smile, 
“it will gain you anything to kill your best friend and 
one of your own people to win the favor of Johnson 
Culberson, strike. When you have served his purpose, he 
will treat you in the same way.” 

“You lie,” Jack snorted. “When de ol’ traitor dead, 
an’ Mass’r Culberson tek de estate an’ de young missus, 
I is to be de oberseer.” 

“An’ you is to get her, too, Jack,” Fidelia reminded 
pleadingly. “Is you gwine kill your share o’ the 
bargain ?’ ’ 

“Yeh, ” Jack answered, scratching his little round 
head in perplexity, while the furrows across his brows 
sank deeper, “but when I lets her go back an’ tell dem, 
we all ain’t gwine get nuttin’.” 

“She won’t go back, Jack; I promise you that,” said 
Fidelia. “She will stay here with me till eberything 
ober, then you come for her.” 

“Ef you swear to dat,” said Jack, seeing a way out of 
his dilemma, “an’ ef you swear dat you wi’ come to me 
arter dat, mebbe I could let you stay. Dem say you 
nebber bruk you wud.” 

He peered at her questioningly, his small gray eyes 
blinking fiercely. Fanny Morgan turned her head away. 
To remain here while this horror should come upon Miss 


TRAPPED 


287 


Betty unheralded; to submit weakly to such a fate after 
that ? Rather death a thousand times! 

“Please let me go, Jack,” she urged, humbled to 
entreaty but not to deception. “I have things in my 
room which I must recover. ’ ’ 

“You’ll get dem arterwards,” the man answered 
sternly. “I is not sich a fool, Fanny Morgan. Either 
you do what I says, or I’ll-” 

He brandished his knife threateningly. 

“I cannot stay,” she answered with cool determination. 

“Den, gosh dang it, dere’s gwiner be one nigger less 
in Yirginy-” 

He raised the gleaming knife with malicious fury, but 
Fidelia sprang forward and caught the extended arm. 

“Now, you listen here, Jack,” she cried with flashing 
eyes, “Fanny Morgan is my frien’, an’ corned here to 
see me. Befo’ you does anything to her, you got to kill 
me dead on the spot; then you see what you get from 
Mass’r Culberson. Now, them’s my final wuds, an’ you’ll 
see I means to keep them.” 

“But what is I gwiner do, Fidelia?” Jack asked with 
indetermination. “Ef I lets de gal go back, eberyt’ing 
spoil, an’ Mass’r Culberson gwine blame me for it.” 

“Let her go,” said Fidelia. “She will not repeat what 
she heard. Won’t you promise that, Fanny?” 

The girl hesitated for an instant. To be unable to 
warn her mistress was little better than be kept from her 
entirely. 

Jack looked questioningly at her. 

“You swear dat ef I lets you go,” he asked, “you am 
not gwiner mention to Colonel Innisdale, nor Miss Betty, 
nor anybody in de house, wha’ you hear we talk ’bout 
in yah ti-night ? ’ ’ 

‘ 1 1 promise, ’ ’ she answered softly. 

‘ ‘ ’Member, ’ ’ he said with a wicked leer, ‘ ‘ ef you bruk 
you wud, dere’s nebber nuttin ’ gwine sabe you from dis 




288 UNDER THE SKIN 

knife. An ’ when I tek you, you wi ’ ’member dat I been 
kin’ to you.” 

She looked up at him with proud scorn. 

“You have the word of a pure-blooded Zandey,” she 
answered. “That shall deter me; not the wrath of a 
half-breed. ’ ’ 

She kissed Fidelia, kissed the two sleeping babes, and 
silently left the cabin. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


LOVE SUPREME. 

Fanny Morgan walked swiftly to the house. In the 
garden she heard the low voices of Beatrice and the 
Englishman; Alec, ’Lizbeth and two white servants were 
in the kitchen; in the colonel’s office she saw him busily 
engaged with Wilson, the overseer. 

She hurried through, and entered her master’s bed¬ 
room. She pulled a drawer open, closed it again, and 
darted from the room and from the house. She crossed 
the lawn, and reached a clump of trees not far from the 
negro settlement. Here she paused, and uttered a low, 
guarded sound in faithful imitation of the waul of a cat. 
A minute later, an answering waul came from the 
interior of the settlement. She waited, eyes and ears 
alert. 

A figure appeared, walking leisurely across the 
grounds. She gave a low hiss. The figure sensed direc¬ 
tion, and bounded to her side. 

“What is it, my lady?” he whispered in the tongue 
of his distant country. “You are in danger. That is 
the old call of our homeland.” 

4 4 Renjy, ’ ’ said Fanny in a low voice, 4 4 in the old days, 
you were the swiftest messenger in Kubanda. Have 
your feet lost their wings ? ’ ’ 

4 4 They have not, my lady. In your service, I shall 
leave the swallow far behind.” 

“It is fifteen miles to Perry’s Crossing,” said the 
girl. 4 4 Can you do it in the hour ? ’ ’ 

Renjy thought for a minute. 

44 A spell more, perhaps,” he answered. “But I shall 
do it in less time than any other man in Virginia could.” 

289 


290 


UNDER THE SKIN 


She shook her head impatiently. 

‘ ‘ The riders will take half an hour to come , 7 7 she said. 
“They must be here by eleven. It is now half-past 
nine . 77 

‘ ‘ What is your errand, my mistress ? I shall do what¬ 
ever man may do . 77 

“Fly there , 77 said the girl. “Show this to any one 
who would stop you on the way, and he will let you pass. 
It is the master’s signet ring. Guard it safely, and give 
it back to me on your return, or, failing to find me, 
give it to my mistress or my master, and say how you 
got it. 

“Hurry to Major Crawford,—he is in camp at the 
Crossing. Tell him Fanny Morgan sent you; he has 
faith in me. Tell him this evening I overheard a plot 
on the life of my master. The governor has given Cul¬ 
berson a warrant for Colonel Innisdale 7 s arrest. Culber¬ 
son says that if the master is arrested, the governor will 
soon set him free; therefore, he and his English visitor 
must be slain, Miss Betty taken prisoner to Culberson, 
and the entire estate turned over to him. He has a 
company of twelve white men and twenty negroes, all 
fully armed, and the attack is set for eleven . 77 

“And the master?- 77 Renjy asked. 

“The master will not know until the attack falls , 77 
the girl answered. “They caught me where I listened, 
and would have killed me, until I promised not to repeat 
to anyone in my master’s house what I had overheard. 
I cannot break my w r ord, but I can tell it to you, for 
you are not one of the family. Go now, dear Renjy. 
Run as you never ran before, and you save me, too. 
When the spoils are divided, I am to fall to the lot of 
the little weazened mulatto they call Jack. Fly, my 
brother. The honor of Kubanda once more rests upon 
you. And if you never see me again, be satisfied that 
your sister died as a princess of our people should die, 
noble and unstained.” 



LOVE SUPREME 291 

Almost before the sound of her voice had died away, 
the form of the fleet Renjy had disappeared. She stood 
for a moment gazing in the direction in which he had 
sped. So, too, had Pompey run when she had sent him 
with tidings of Miss Betty’s fate. Yet, she knew Renjy. 

She walked back to the cabins occupied by white 
servants. Only three men, she knew, w r ere there; three 
too feeble to bear arms. The others were at Perry’s 
Crossing, drilling for the conflict that was to come. 

She knocked at the door of the aged blacksmith, and 
was admitted. 

“Master Rockwell,” she said, “the master will need 
you at a quarter of eleven. Bring your gun, and what¬ 
ever ammunition you have. ’ ’ 

1 ‘ Huh! ’ ’ Rockwell limped painfully across the floor, 
and placed a massive coal on his half-burnt pipe. “What 
kin the colonel want now? He took all my ammunition 
day before yestidday. However, I’ll be there.” 

Fanny Morgan went on her way. She had often been 
the colonel’s messenger, and as Innisdale had lately been 
making a thorough inventory of all arms on the planta¬ 
tion, there was nothing suspicious about her errand. 

She visited the two other white men, delivered the 
same message, and received a similar assurance. She 
might have been able to secure the services of half-a-dozen 
faithful negroes, but she feared she might be seen in 
that section, and her plans guessed. 

She returned to the house, and started to explore the 
barns and outhouses, in search of anything that might 
be of use; for she was impressed by the awful shortage 
of ammunition. One old blunderbus, discarded as use¬ 
less, half-a-dozen rusty swords and a horn of powder 
rewarded her efforts. She brought them in stealthily, 
and concealed them in the dining-room. 

It was after ten. She walked into the kitchen, but soon 
darted out again, leaving a promise to return. She meant 
to keep the house awake till after eleven,—without 


292 


UNDER THE SKIN 


betraying her secret. Pressley had joined Innisdale and 
Wilson in the library. She ascended to Miss Betty’s 
room, and entered. Her mistress was seated at a table, 
lost in thought. 

“Did you want me, Miss Betty?” she asked. 

“No, Fanny. You needn’t stay up for me. I can 
manage without you to-night. ’ ’ 

“Please, Miss Betty, won’t you let me put you to bed 
when you are ready?” she begged. “I shan’t be going 
to bed for some time yet.” 

“All right,” Beatrice answered carelessly. “Return 
in an hour. If I need you before, I shall ring.” 

She returned to the dining-room. That was where she 
expected the conflict. It had a wide double-door opening 
upon the moon-lit verandah, and four wide windows 
overlooking the lawn. A smaller rear door led through 
the pantry to the kitchen across the yard, while a third 
opened into a long hall-way that led, past the library and 
an unused sitting-room, to the parlor. 

The windows, as was the custom, were protected by 
heavy wooden shutters. She bolted them carefully, all 
but one, at which she stood on watch. She crossed to the 
parlor, and locked the door by which it could be reached 
from the lawn; then returned to her post. 

She saw Rockwell limp across the yard. She opened 
the door, and left him waiting in the pantry,—the master 
would see him in a few minutes. 

Ricks and Walton, the two other men she had sum¬ 
moned, also arrived, both too feeble to be of much use in 
any emergency. Them, also, she left in the pantry, with 
the same excuse. She brought in Alec, ’Lizbeth and 
the two white maids from the kitchen, then carefully 
bolted the rear door. Nobody questioned her actions. 
Fanny Morgan always had Miss Betty’s authority for 
whatever she did. 

The clock boomed forth eleven sonorous notes. To 
the girl, it seemed the call of death. But she showed 


LOVE SUPREME 


293 


no sign of emotion. She bolted the shutter of the single 
window she had left open, locked the door, and took 
her place beside it, ready for whatever might occur. 

Ten minutes might have drifted by. She heard a 
footstep cross the lawn, heard it tread on the verandah. 
Came a rap at the door. 

“Who is there?” she demanded calmly, without open¬ 
ing the door. 

“A messenger to Colonel Innisdale,” came the answer 
in a voice she had learnt to detest,—the voice of Jack. 

“The master is engaged,” she answered. “What is 
the message?” 

“I hab,” said Jack, repeating, parrot-like, the words 
that had been drilled into him, “de king’s warrant—for 
de body of one Matthew Innisdale—a traitor to His 
Majesty’s gubberment—to be taken to Williamsburg 
dead or ’live—an’ delibered to His Majesty Gubner 
General—Signed Dunmore Gawd sabe de King. ’ ’ 

“Wait a minute,” said Fanny. “I shall deliver your 
message to my master.” 

She walked across to the library, where the three men 
were seated. 

“If you please, my master,” she said, “that mulatto 
they call Jack is at the door; and with him are twenty 
negroes and twelve white men, led by Master Culberson. 
He says that he has the king’s warrant to take to 
Williamsburg the body of a traitor named Matthew 
Innisdale, dead or alive.” 

“What?” gasped Innisdale, white with rage. “Who 
dare-” 

He sprang from his chair and darted towards the 
door. 

“Don’t go, my master, please,” the girl begged. 
“They mean it.” 

He thrust her aside, and reached the door. Pressley 
and Wilson hurried after him. He pulled the door open. 
There was no one without. He took a single step. 



294 


UNDER THE SKIN 


A flash lighted a bush far out on the lawn. A tinge 
of fire crossed his face. A bullet sank into the door¬ 
post, and the report of a gun woke up the house. 

Matthew Innisdale, the man who had won the reputa¬ 
tion of possessing the hastiest temper in all Virginia, 
took one step back into the house, slowly closed the door 
behind him, turned to Pressley with a harsh laugh, and 
exhibited a long wale across his right cheek. 

4 * Dunmore certainly employs competent assassins, ’ ’ he 
said. “He is a good marksmen who does this at ninety 
yards. ’’ 

The three old men left in the pantry hastened to the 
door, the four servants waiting in the hall joined the 
number, and Beatrice ran down the stairs. 

“What is it?” she asked eagerly. “I heard a gun .’ 9 

“ Dunmore’s way of arresting me for treason , 99 said 
Innisdale, pointing to his cheek. “What are you doing 
here?” he demanded as his eyes fell on the three the 
girl had summoned. 

“Fanny Morgan said you wanted me at eleven,” 
Rockwell answered, “and that I should bring gun and 
ammunition . 9 9 

Innisdale ’s frown turned to the girl. 

“Please forgive me, my master,” said Fanny without* 
waiting for his accusation. “I knew you’d need help, 
and these are the only white men left on the estate . 9 9 

“Knew I’d need help?” stormed Innisdale. “Then 
you knew of this plot against my life?” 

‘ ‘ Please, my master, ’ ’ answered the girl, 11 1 overheard 
their plans, and would have warned you, but they caught 
me, and were about to kill me, until I promised not to 
repeat what I had heard. I could not break my word, 
but I have done whatever else I might.” 

“Who ever heard the likes?” gasped Innisdale, over¬ 
come. “She knew her master was to be murdered, yet, 
cowardly cur, she would not warn us! Girl, I’m going 
to teach you- 99 



LOVE SUPREME 


295 


Beatrice sprang to the girl’s side, and threw a pro¬ 
tecting arm around her. 

“Fanny Morgan is no coward, and no cur,” she re¬ 
torted hotly. “Father, take back your unjust words, or 
apply them to your daughter. I do not know what all 
this means; but I know Fanny never acted dishonorably. 
Will you tell me all about it, dear?” 

Fanny looked up into her mistress’ trusting face. 

“What I overheard I cannot tell,” she answered. “I 
pleaded for life and freedom, in the hope that I might' 
warn and save you, but only escaped after I had promised 
not to repeat to anyone in my master ’s house any word 
that I had heard. But I sent a messenger to Major 
Crawford with news of what was planned;—my promise 
did not forbid my telling him.” 

“How long ago was that,” Pressley asked. 

“At half-past nine,” Fanny replied. “The major 
knows the attack is timed for eleven. ’ ’ 

“It is fifteen miles to Perry’s Crossing,” Innisdale 
murmured. “The messenger may do it in three hours, 
and another for the return, if they come on the best 
horses. We must hold them off till two. Major Pressley, 
you are a leader of fighting men; what do you suggest ? 
For my own part, I’d as soon yield to the warrant, and 
laugh at Dunmore to his face. He cannot hold me.” 

“True, Colonel,” Pressley answered. “But you have 
not received a warrant; and the attempt just made shows 
what chance you would have of ever reaching Williams¬ 
burg. I think we can hold them off till Crawford comes. ’ ’ 

“There are but three of us,” said Wilson. “My old 
friends here can handle fire-arms, I know; but when it 
comes to swords, they can do little. And to swords it 
must eventually come: we have no ammunition. ’ ’ 

1 ‘ Here is a horn of powder that I found in one of the 
out-buildings,” Fanny volunteered; “also some swords 
and a gun.” 

The colonel received the offering. 


296 


UNDER THE SKIN 


“By the way, girl, I did not mean to be unjust to 
you,” he said, “and, of course, I know that you are not 
a coward. But, Major, we cannot remain cooped up in 
here without knowing what form the attack is likely 
to take. Open the windows.” 

“Only one, and that cautiously,” Pressley warned. 
“It will be a target the moment it is opened.” 

He pushed the wooden shutter open, and almost at 
the same instant three bullets shattered the glass. 

“Nowlet them waste their ammunition,” he laughed, 
“while we talk over things.” 

“They haven’t much to spare,” Fanny confided to 
her mistress in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “I 
discovered their supply of powder,—a full keg,—and 
saturated it with beer. But they haven’t found it out 
yet.” 

Pressley laughed heartily. 

“Then we’ll draw their fire,” he said, “and let them 
burn up what they have. ’ ’ 

He placed his hat on the point of his rifle, and pushed 
it over the edge of the window sill, so that it would look 
like some one peeping out. When he lifted it from the 
floor a second later, there were three bullet holes through 
the crown. 

“They are wonderful marksmen, Colonel,” he said 
with keen appreciation. “We must empty their pouches, 
or they’ll be dangerous. Yet we must be cautious, and 
not give away the game.” 

A hasty stock of the supply of ammunition was taken. 
The urgent call for men at Perry’s Crossing, and the 
necessity that those men should learn to shoot, had 
caused Innisdale to offer all he had. There were guns 
and swords, but little powder. 

It is probable that if Culberson had made a sudden 
attack upon the mansion, it might have been taken with 
little resistance. It is difficult to say for what he waited. 
Perhaps it was because he planned death, rather than 


LOVE SUPREME 


297 


capture, for those within. Perhaps it was just to satisfy 
his glut for cruelty that he chose first to torture those 
whom he would destroy. Probably he meant the occasion 
as a training for his band of ruffians: in the chaos he 
foresaw, he would certainly need a gang of trained and 
seasoned villains. Of course, he felt that he had all 
the time he needed. There was no neighbor to hear 
the firing and render assistance; the nearest residence 
was ten miles away. And he could not guess that one 
of his enemies knew his plans, for Fidelia had prevailed 
upon her brother to conceal from him the fact that he 
had caught and released the indomitable negress. 

“We have,” said Pressley when his survey was com¬ 
pleted, “not more than twenty charges of ammunition. 
There are thirty-four men out there. We cannot waste 
one shot. If any one of us has the least doubt of his 
accuracy, it is safest for him to let the others have his 
portion. ” 

For a moment there was a tense silence. 

“Thirty years ago,” said old Ricks in a tremulous 
voice, “I could hit a speeding deer at two hundred paces 
by the feel of my gun. I count it no dishonor, where all 
our lives may depend upon a single shot, to own that 
in the trembling moonlight my eyes are none too good. ’’ 

“Rather it is an honor, Mr. Ricks,” Pressley replied. 
“You are a true soldier, and a true Englishman. 
Anyone else?” 

There was no other. 

“Then we’ll count out twenty of our adversaries,” 
Pressley continued. “That leaves fourteen. Our swords 
must keep them back. They cannot hope to gain much 
by shooting at us from cover. We shall await the 
charge.” 

Had their supply of powder lasted, the villains might 
have remained under cover indefinitely, but their horns 
were soon emptied, and when they tried to replenish 
them, they discovered that the other was useless. Cul- 


298 


UNDER THE SKIN 


berson’s vindictive oaths easily reached the house, but 
Jack persisted that he could not account for it. For 
the first time the rascal showed alarm. Whoever 
had tampered with the powder might also have taken 
other steps to thwart his plans. Haste was necessary. 

Ten of his negroes, armed with axes, were dispatched 
to break down the door, while the few men who still 
had charges in their guns were to watch the window, 
now darkened, and protect the axemen. 

Pressley had foreseen this move, and held his gunners 
ready, out of range of the sharp-shooters, yet within an 
angle across which the men must pass. He waited tiU 
the party mounted the verandah, a dozen yards away, 
then gave the word to fire. There was a single report, 
and when the smoke cleared away, five black faces lay 
grinning up at the pale moon. 

Culberson could be prodigal with his negroes. He had 
promised them their freedom, and, to his way of thinking, 
freed negroes were no better than dead ones. He knew 
the garrison within was small, and he felt that five dead 
meant only five guns. He saw that anyone who reached 
the door was out of range from the window, which was 
along the same wall, and was also sheltered from above. 
His second party consisted of the entire fifteen, five of 
whom he knew would die. Five died: but the others 
reached the door, and the house soon shook with the 
blows of their axes. A few of the men also attacked 
the smaller door that led from the kitchen, with a 
similar assault. 

“Miss Innisdale,” Pressley suggested, “will you take 
the women into the hall and keep them there? You will 
be out of danger, and, even if we fall, they can have 
nothing against you.” 

Beatrice turned slowly away. 

“My mistress,” said Fanny Morgan, trying to detain 
her, “when your father and Major Pressley are mur- 


LOVE SUPREME 


299 


dered, will you permit me to thrust that knife into your 
breast before I plunge it in my own?” 

Innisdale turned a dark frown upon the girl, but 
before either he or Beatrice could answer, Pressley inter¬ 
rupted with a harsh laugh. 

“You mistake her, Colonel,” he said. “That is not 
the melodrama it would seem. She alone of us all knows 
the purpose of these murderers, and, although she may 
not break her promise, she circumvents it as deftly as 
a European diplomat. She only means to inform us 
that you and I are slated for death, and your daughter 
for worse.” 

Fanny Morgan smiled kindly at the Englishman. 

“I could have told you as much,” said Beatrice. “I 
have been expecting this attack ever since Major Press¬ 
ley’s arrival.” 

“You have?” Pressley enquired. 

“Yes, Major. The warrant for my father is only an 
excuse, though Culberson threatened us some time ago. 
It is you he is after. ’ ’ 

“Me? But why?” 

“Because,” Miss Innisdale answered slowly, “Johnson 
Culberson is an Englishman of good family who came 
to Virginia some five years ago, and lives under an 
assumed name; because he is about thirty-five, is two 
inches taller than you and somewhat heavier; because 
he has a light, military bearing, regular features, black 
hair and sea-green eyes; and because he is an immoral, 
treacherous coward.” 

“Heavens!” gasped Pressley. “It is Franklyn Ever- 
leigh.” 

“It is Franklyn Everleigh,” Beatrice nodded. “I 
knew him from your description on the first evening 
of your visit.” 

‘ ‘ By heaven, you are right, ’ ’ Innisdale interjected. ‘‘ I 
ought to have known him. I remember the interest he 
took in your proposed visit when we learnt of it, and it 


300 


UNDER THE SKIN 


was shortly afterwards that he took the step which he 
must have known could end only in his having to leave 
Innismount. 77 

‘ ‘ Franklyn Everleigh ! 7 7 Pressley repeated. 1 ‘ It is best 
so. I have sought him over half the world. 77 

He had not long to brood over this new phase of the 
situation. The doors were slowly giving way to the 
blows of the axemen; and it was not yet twelve o ’clock! 

The moonlight streamed through as a plank was ripped 
away. The men stationed behind emptied their guns, 
picking off a third five of their assailants. They rammed 
the last charge in, fired again, then tossed their useless 
guns aside. 

“Relight the candles, 77 Pressley ordered. “Their 
ammunition, too, is exhausted. What follows is desperate 
work; we must take no chances. Mr. Wilson, will you 
hold the rear door? It is narrow, and but one can 
attack. The colonel and I shall hold them at this. You 
will watch the shattered window, Mr. Walton; it is 
difficult to scale, and they will not attempt it if it is 
guarded. You other two gentlemen must act as reserves, 
and give aid wherever we are weakest. 77 

“Throw the door open, 77 suggested Innisdale, as a 
second plank fell away. “This debris but clutters our 
steps. 7 7 

The massive double-doors swung inwards with a jerk 
which precipitated two of the attackers into the room. 
They fell upon two naked swords, and sank to the ground. 
Their companions shrank back, awed. 

“Not a step beyond, Colonel, 77 Pressley warned. 
“Here we may withstand an army, but only here. 77 

His eyes vainly searched the cowering group for the 
long-sought form of Everleigh. 

“What coward leads these yapping dogs? 77 he asked 
scornfully. “Will he not advance like a man? 77 

There was no answer, save a low growl from the 


LOVE SUPREME 301 

baffled villains. Suddenly, Jack singled himself out for 
leadership. 

“Come on,” he yelled. “Eb’rybody togedder. Dem 
two can’t stop we.” 

A massive white man sprang beside him, two others 
followed, then a couple of negroes. It was a reckless 
charge, against the two best swordsmen in Virginia. The 
foremost pair went down without an effort, the others 
made a fruitless stab at the empty air, then sulked back 
to join the muttering group on the verandah. 

There came a sudden crash from the rear as the door 
gave way. The voice of the man they had known as 
Culberson rang above the sound of falling timber. 

“We have them, men. Cut down the traitors. Give 
them no chance to flee.” 

The men rallied at the sound. They had heard that 
voice before, and seen a circle of Indian dead surround 
the sword he wielded. They fought like desperate fiends. 

Seven charged the door at which the two men stood, 
stabbing with malignant fury. One tried to scale the 
shattered window Walton guarded. One followed at 
the leader’s heels. 

Wilson made a brave effort to hold the door. Ever- 
leigh tossed him aside with scornful contempt, almost 
severing his right arm with a single swing of his sword. 

Ricks and Rockwell sprang into the breach. Everleigh 
eyed them with a sneer, struck their weapons from their 
feeble hands, and sent them crashing unconscious against 
the walls, Ricks with a mighty kick, and Rockwell with 
a blow of his fist. It was not these infirm creatures he 
had come to fight. 

Of the seven who had stormed the wider door, but four 
remained. Innisdale threw a quick glance over his 
shoulder, and took in the situation in the pantry. He 
sprang round to meet Everleigh approaching twelve feet 

behind. 

“Ah, Colonel,” said the villain with chilling calm- 


302 


UNDER THE SKIN 


ness, “I’ve been longing to meet you. I’m wofully out 
of practice, and my arm is a little stiff. Easy, Colonel; 
you are a trifle excited.” 

Matthew Innisdale was one of the finest swordsmen 
Britain ever bred in an age when swordsmanship had 
attained its highest development. His one mistake was 
to underrate the skill of the man he faced. Whatever 
defects Franklyn Everleigh might have possessed, in¬ 
efficiency with the sword was not One of them. Nothing 
but the colonel’s cat-like swiftness of foot saved him 
when he lunged desperately, missed his opponent, and 
barely recovered in time to escape the lightning return. 
But he learnt cpiickly, and grew more cautious. 

Everleigh, on the other hand, had long known the 
other’s reputation, and took no chance. He fenced and 
parried with untiring patience, awaiting an opening 
which Innisdale never gave. 

For ten long minutes their swords clashed, and 
buffeted each other, and reverberated back; but not a 
drop of blood was drawn. It became purely a game of 
endurance, and in this, the youth and weight and firmer 
muscles of the younger man must eventually claim the 
advantage. Innisdale saw this, and tried to hasten the 
end, but the other would not be drawn out. 

It came at last, when Everleigh felt that his foe was 
sufficiently exhausted. He waited for the colonel’s 
lunge, then, throwing all his massive strength and bulk 
into one desperate rush that shook the house, sent his 
point crashing into his victim’s breast. 

Innisdale recovered in time partly to divert the sword, 
but the abnormal weight behind that thrust was beyond 
his strength. The sword sank deep, yet it was the 
terrible rush than sent him huddled unconscious to the 
floor. 

Everleigh coolly withdrew his sword, and stepped over 
the body of his latest victim. There was but one left,— 
besides the pale, terrified girl in the corner who held on 


LOVE SUPREME 


303 


to Fanny Morgan’s hand, crushed with sorrow and 
despair, yet too proud to sue for mercy of such a 
despicable foe. 

Everleigh’s eyes passed slowly from her to the English¬ 
man at the door. Single-handed, he held four maddened 
rascals at his sword’s end. They might not have been 
masters of the art, but they were desperate, and strong 
as he, and fighting for their lives. And they were four 
to one. 

His unerring eyes seemed to sense every aim before 
it could materialize into a direct action; his nimble feet 
barely touched the ground as his lithe body darted here 
and there, escaping this edge, avoiding that deadly 
thrust, dashing this blow aside, striking that point to 
eartli; hacking, slashing, skipping, parrying with untir¬ 
ing skill, knowing that a single slip, or a tardy muscle, 
meant, not alone his death, but all he cared for most. 
Several times he saw an opening for a fatal thrust: 
he dared not make it, lest some other weapon should 
pierce his marvellous defence before he could recover. 

A clever cut sent one victim reeling against the wall, 
his sword-arm severed. Almost before the blow could 
be seen, he had struck aside two other points and sprung 
out of the way of a vicious slash. 

Everleigh looked on mutely, admiration struggling 
with envy and hate. There was no hurry now. He stood 
ten feet behind his foe, who dared not turn his eyes in 
that direction;—his foe who, he knew, had sought him 
throughout England, and had come to Virginia in quest 
of his blood. 

Twelve dolorous notes sounded from the clock,—the 
funeral dirge, it seemed, of all that was lovely and 
noble at Innismount. As the last melancholy sound died 
away, Fanny Morgan gripped tightly her mistress’ arm, 
and glanced encouragingly up into her eyes. Beatrice 
could not translate the action: her ears were not as sharp 
as the girl’s, her emotions stronger. But Everleigh, less 


304 


UNDER THE SKIN 


occupied, raised his head to listen. From the barely 
audible distance came the sound of hoof-beats in furious 
gallop. He knew what that sound meant: rescue. 
Rescue, while his foe still lived! There was no more time 
to waste. 

With the cool deliberation that had characterized all 
his fiendish deeds, he slowly lifted his sword, aiming 
steadily at the back of the man so desperately pressed in 
front. For a single instant Pressley lighted on his feet 
as he made a deadly slash, and at that same instant 
Everleigh made the fatal thrust. 

Beatrice saw the dastardly act and uttered a piercing 
scream, but it was too late to save the man she loved. 
For at that very moment Pressley’s sword was deep in 
one of the villains’ skull. 

But Fanny Morgan had been coolly measuring the 
methodical aim. At the very moment when Everleigh 
lunged, she sprang;—sprang as the leopard leaps upon 
the prey that should never rise again; sprang as the 
mother rushes to embrace the long-lost babe she had given 
up for dead. Midway in air she met the glistening blade, 
and clasped it to her breast. It sank: sank deep and 
true: through black skin, and tense-nerved muscles, and 
noble heart. She huddled to the floor, a smile upon her 
lips, still clutching the weapon in her heart. 

Pressley heard Miss Innisdale’s shriek. He made a 
blind slash at the two rascals who still confronted him, 
while he threw a hasty glance behind. He understood. 
Everleigh had not yet disengaged his weapon. With one 
herculean swing he sent his sword at the head of the 
monster, and the body of Franklyn Everleigh, liar, 
coward and murderer, sank across that of the girl. 

The Englishman turned again, but his last two foes 
had fled. He sprang over the headless body of his 
victim, raised the bleeding form of Innisdale, and tore 
the clothing from his breast. The wound was dangerous, 
but not deadly. The blow, partially parried, had struck 


LOVE SUPREME 305 

a rib, along which the point had been diverted, barely 
slashing away six inches of skin. 

The colonel opened his eyes sheepishly, and at that 
instant Major Crawford sprang into the room, half-a- 
dozen dusty warriors at his heels. 

“Am I too late?” he gasped. 

There was no answer. The doctor, who had followed 
hard behind, bent over Innisdale. Pressley turned away. 

‘ ‘ Where is Miss Innisdale ? ” he asked. ‘ ‘ Is she hurt ? ’ ’ 

“She carried the black girl upstairs,” Walton an¬ 
swered. “I think she is dead.” 

Pressley mounted the stairs slowly. He found the door 
of Miss Innisdale’s room open, and entered. On the 
snow-white bed reposed the still and motionless form of 
the negress. Beside the bed Miss Innisdale knelt, her 
face in her hands. 

He did not speak. He knew the girl had saved his life. 

Beatrice looked up. Her eyes were dry and sparkling. 
Her voice was harsh, almost cruel. 

‘ ‘ It was your life or hers, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ She chose. ’ ’ 

‘ 1 1 know. ’ ’ His words came huskily, as if some 
monster wrenched them from his heart. “May my life 
prove worth the sacrifice, and my end be not less noble.” 

Miss Innisdale rose. She bent over the still figure, 
gently parted the thin muslin above the dusky breast, 
and pulled out a necklace of soiled string, at the end 
of which dangled an English shilling. 

‘ ‘ What is that ? ’ ’ gasped Pressley, seizing the coin and 
staring at the crude initials on it. “I gave that to the 
Princess of Kubanda!” 

“Didn’t you recognize her?” 

“My God, how blind! I should have known. There 
could not be another such! You knew her?” 

“She told me all when she saved my life in the wild 
Indian mountains long before you came,” Miss Innis¬ 
dale answered. “She made me promise never to repeat 
it while she lived.” 


306 


UNDER THE SKIN 


‘ ‘ The Princess Ubaba! ’ ’ Pressley mused, as though he 
did not hear. “A slave! Here! And never one kind 
word from me!” 

He sank to his knees beside the bed, and his lips rested 
on the cold, damp hand that had been denied him in 
the wilds of Central Africa. 

Beatrice walked silently from the room, and closed 
the door behind her. His sorrow was too holy for her 
eyes. 


CHAPTER XLII. 


THE LAST TRIBUTE. 

A bright spring sunshine bathed the dew-damp lawns 
and fragrant gardens of one of the loveliest mansions of 
Virginia. Within the house there was no sound. The 
breakfast table had been set, but no one touched the meal. 

The lady who occupied the seat of honor was rather 
slight, with large, expressive black eyes, which held a 
softness that might have been mistaken for melancholy 
by one who had not seem her light-hearted happiness 
in the bosom of her family. 

Beside her sat a little boy, hardly four years old, trim 
and erect, and, apparently, bursting with some informa¬ 
tion or enquiry which training had taught him to repress. 

Across from the lady sat a gentleman,—a tall, soldierly 
figure, wearing a uniform that was unknown to the world 
a decade earlier. 

The three sat in expectant silence. Presently a door 
opened, and a little old man entered. He was dressed 
in the height of fashion, and a small ridge of white 
powder on each shoulder grew higher whenever he moved 
his head. He bowed courteously to the three, but spoke 
no word. 

The soldier pulled a letter from his pocket, and passed 
it to the elder man. He read the few lines to himself: 

“My very dear friend,—I am sending this by a special 
messenger that it may reach you on the day of your 
departure. There is nothing I can say that I have not 
said before, yet I feel that one more assurance of my 
confidence and solicitude will not be amiss. 

“Your position, as our first Ambassador to England, 

307 


308 


UNDER THE SKIN 


is one full of difficulties; but I sincerely believe there 
is no other man in the country better able to re-establish 
cordial relations, to obliterate the bitterness of recent 
years, and to express to Europe what America stands for. 

‘ ‘ Commend me to your lady, and to my god-son. That 
he will be a second edition of his worthy father, is the 
earnest prayer of 

“Your sincere friend and companion in arms, 

“Gr. Washington. ’ 9 

The old man folded the letter, and returned it to the 
owner without comment. 

Steps were heard ascending the stairs. An aged 
negress entered. In her hand she bore a large garland 
of milk-white blossoms, their petals still heavy with dew. 
Behind her came a white-haired negro leaning heavily 
on a cane. A younger negro followed, erect and soldierly, 
on his arm a tiny bit of ribbon which, to one who knew, 
would indicate that he had been a trusted bearer of 
confidential dispatches in the continental army. 

The trio ranged themselves before the door-way in 
respectful attention. The boy, as if it had been his daily 
task, sprang from his high chair, ran to the negress, and 
received the flowers. 

He took them to his mother. She touched them lightly 
to her lips, and presented them to the soldier. He per¬ 
formed the same act, then returned them to the child. 

The boy led the way down the stairs. The lady 
followed, next the soldier, then the old gentleman; while 
the negroes brought up the rear in the order in which 
they had entered. 

The silent procession crossed the lawn, and halted 
beside a small mound partly concealed by lilies and 
oleanders and fragrant jasmine. The child laid the gar¬ 
land on the mound, and turned reverently away. The 
rest of the party silently followed,—all save the soldier. 

His eyes slowly mounted a tall pole that stood at the 


THE LAST TRIBUTE 


309 


head of the mound, and paused for an instant, as if 
studying the tiny flag that floated from its staff,—a flag 
till then unknown in the annals of internationalism, with 
silver bars upon a red ground, and, in an upper corner, 
a circle of thirteen stars on a blue field. 

His eyes sank again, and rested upon a shaft of black 
granite that stood beside the flag pole. He silently read 
the brief inscription it contained: 

UB AB A 

PRINCESS OF KUBANDA 
WHO GAVE HER LIFE 
FOR 

AMERICA. 


THE END. 







































\ 





DBC2 im 



































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































